


The Ruin of Souls

by emptycel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel Sherlock, Demonic Possession, Exorcist John, Friends to Lovers, I take some liberties with different religions please don't be offended, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptycel/pseuds/emptycel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of hiding, angels, demons, and deities of all religions Reveal themselves to the world. Years later, John Watson becomes an exorcist, known for taking down high priority possessions. When Archangel Sherlock Holmes needs his help, John gets drafted into an elite group containing a timid demonologist, an ex-cop demon hunter, and a bad tempered succubus, all working to track and take down the escaped demon Moriarty. </p><p>Warnings: language, eventual slash, and various religions slightly distorted for the sake of story telling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in the Christian lore because I went to Catholic school for a few years and I'm more familiar with Christianity. HOWEVER, I am not a religious person and this story DOES NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT MY RELIGIOUS VIEWS. Also, this story does not deny the existence of other religions, in fact it takes the stance that pretty much all religions coexist with each other, that no one is wrong and every deity has their own jurisdiction. Warning, I do slightly distort some religions, the Christian religion especially, solely for the sake of story telling and to try and keep from stomping on other religious beliefs. It is very slight, but if this may offend you, do not read this story. It is not intended to offend, but I know religion is a touchy subject for a lot of people. 
> 
> The prayer at the beginning is the prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. The prayer John uses in the first scene is the Our Father. 
> 
> Also, I have no effing clue how exorcisms work, and the research was extremely contradictory, so I've made up my own rules and hopefully I'll manage to stick to them.

_St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle._

_Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil._

_May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,_

_And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host,_

_By the Power of God,_

_Cast into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits_

_Who prowl about the World_

_Seeking the Ruin of Souls._

_Amen_

John was covered in bile and he was wishing that he wasn't so used to the feeling.

 

“You are banished from this place,” he ordered in a commanding voice, flicking more holy water at the man seated in front of him. “Return to the pits of hell, creature of Satan. By the power of God, you are cast from this Earth, cast from this body, and cast from this realm.”

 

The man screamed, and John was buffeted back by a dark, powerful force. Lesser men would be knocked off their feat.

 

But exorcisms do not attack physical strength. They attack mental and emotional strength, they test faith, loyalty, and willpower. This was why John was so good at them.

 

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven,” John began reciting as the man convulsed before him. “Hallowed be Thy name. They Kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

 

There, the creeping black tendrils were being forced from the poor innocent man in front of him. About damn time. This had been going on for thirty six uninterrupted hours. John was about ready to fall over in exhaustion. He had never come so close to breaking before. He already had been relieved by a novice once already so he could pull himself together. The young girl had barely been able to contain the demon while John was away, she had made no progress in removing it.

 

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

 

“ _We will remember, Watson. You rise above your station, mortal. And for that, you will soon pay._ ” In a rush of black smoke, the demon finally vacated the body and vanished, sucked back into the depths of Hell.

 

“Amen,” John finished, wiping his brow. “Jesus Christ, that was a doozy. Here mate, can you stand?”

 

He helped the poor man to his feet, pale, damp with sweat, shaking, and terrified out of his mind. “That-that thing has been inside me for years. Thank you. Thank you so much, Father. I feel like myself again.”

 

“Not a priest,” John said with a laugh, “but you're more than welcome. Here, follow Father Murray. He will get you some food and give you a safe place to rest for the night. In the morning, a novice will teach you how to protect yourself from future possession. Now that you've been taken once, you're at a higher risk of being taken again.”

 

The man kept babbling his thanks as John shoved him off into Father Murray's care.

 

He retired quickly to his quarters and took a long shower, getting the stench of vomit and sulfur out of his skin.

 

He often wondered how he got to this point, how he went from being a soldier to one of London's best exorcists. If it weren't for the Reveal, as people were calling it, he probably would have died alone in a pathetic bedsit, gun in hand and a bullet through his brain.

 

He hadn't even been religious. But there was really no rationalizing all of it away anymore. Angels and demons suddenly decided to let themselves be known. The only things mortals could do now was scramble like mad to keep up with the new set of rules forced upon every society. Demon trappers and demon hunters cropped up in the less savory parts of town, exorcists and angelologists in the areas that pretended they were better.

 

John was a Convert, one of the many bandwagon-ers who brushed up on as much religious lore as possible in order to understand this twisted new world around them.

 

He could have picked any religion to study, really. The angels and demons were not necessarily Christian in origin. In fact, once the Church came across a demon that was never mentioned in Christian lore, although the Shinto specialist across town was able to deal with it in an hour.

 

He defaulted to Christianity out of habit, growing up with Christmas and Easter and the occasional Mass his grandmother forced him to attend. It was a more familiar world, though still alien to him. His skills in exorcism were discovered on accident, when a low level demon tried to possess his body and his loudly told it to shove off until it gave up and left.

 

An iron will, he was told, would make him nearly invulnerable to possession. Ideal for an exorcist, which were in high demand now that demons weren't being shy about roaming the Earth anymore.

 

And so he trained. Now he had a nice set of rooms reserved for him at most of London's churches. He was popular for not being picky about the various sects. Or about religion in general, he often worked with the constantly good spirited Rabbi at his synagogue two blocks away. And the aforementioned Shinto specialist was a delight to have over for tea.

 

He was nicknamed the 'consulting exorcist.' More often than he really cared for, he was privately hired to deal with a demon that more often than not turned out to be an unruly child, not a possession of demonic forces. But the pay was good, and he was able to keep a flat of his own, when he didn't feel like taking up unnecessary space in a church's basement.

 

Speaking of, he really wanted to sleep in his own bed after the day he'd just had. He quickly finished his shower and changed, grabbing the few things he had left in the room and locking up, sure he would be back sooner rather than later.

 

In his opinion, possessions were just getting worse and worse, the angels getting fewer and fewer. Or, at least, that what it seemed like from this side of the war. When he was in Afghanistan, it felt like the Taliban was only growing stronger and stronger, but in truth he was just getting tired. Tired and unable to deal with all the shit being thrown in his path.

 

“Leaving, John?” Father Stamford asked him pleasantly when they saw each other in the hallway. “You look exhausted, if you don't mind me saying. I beg you to stay for the night, if you are tired.”

 

“Always tired, Mike,” John sighed. “But after an exorcism like that, I just need to get back to my own flat.”

 

“I understand,” Father Stamford said kindly. “You do what you feel best. You must keep your soul strong. However, if you ever feel in need of safe haven, our doors are always open to weary travelers.”

 

“Thank you,” John said politely, starting to edge away. “I'm just, um, going to go now.”

 

“Stay strong, Brother John.”

 

John bade his farewells, made his excuses, and finally made his way back to his flat.

 

He was ashamed that it took him as long as it did to realize that something was wrong. He had already stuck the key in the lock when the icy prickling of instinct flared up at the nape of his neck. He paused but recovered quickly, trying not to let the intruder know he felt something wrong.

 

He couldn't have said what it was. Maybe there was some tiny detail of the door the worked its way into his subconscious. Maybe he heard very tiny movements from his flat. All he could say was that he knew that as soon as he opened the door, he wouldn't be alone.

 

Wishing, for the first time in a long time, that he had a gun with him, John opened the door and stepped into the darkened flat.

 

He flicked on the light and stared at the intruder.

 

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't the pale, curly haired man casually leaning against the wall adjacent to the door.

 

He calmly shut the door behind him. The visitor didn't move. He merely regarded John with pale blue eyes, lazily, as though he had every right to be there.

 

“I've been here for three days,” the visitor said in a deep voice. “Waiting. You've been busy in that time, I see.”

 

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” John asked with a sigh. “I thought I was finished working with you.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, shifting slightly. “Well. I am in need of your skill set.”

 

John sighed. “Yeah, there are less illegal ways to contact me for work. You can't keep showing up at my flat when you need an exorcist. I understand you're high priority, but I can't drop everything when you have a job. I need--”

 

“Bored,” Sherlock interrupted. “And I don't care for your petty exorcisms. We have a Priority One escaped from our prison. And, as always, none of the other exorcists will work with me.”

 

John snorted. “That's because you're as rude as a Fallen and tend to tell the exorcists they're doing everything wrong.”

 

“They were,” Sherlock insisted with a small pout. “And that is hardly _my_ fault.”

 

John moved into the sitting room and collapsed into his favorite chair. Sherlock took the unoccupied one. “So,” John said after a moment. “You've lost a demon?”

 

“Anderson lost him,” Sherlock sighed, as though that explained everything. “The idiot's hardly suited to be a Wanderer. Whatever went through Its mind when Anderson was named Guardian is beyond me. We've lost Moriarty, one of the nastiest demons in our possession.”

 

“Speaking of possession,” John continued, following Sherlock's train of thought. “I'm assuming this Moriarty fellow has slipped away and stolen the body of some poor sod in London?”

 

“Quite right.”

 

“And so you need an exorcist.” John leaned forward slightly, unable to contain the rising excitement at the idea, despite the weariness weighing him down. Jobs requested by angels were always high profile and high energy. They knew where the most dangerous demons were, and they knew how to take them down. But, for some reason John was never quite sure of, angels couldn't perform exorcisms themselves.

 

“So, did a superior send you to clean up Anderson's mess?”

 

Sherlock snorted and looked at John disdainfully. “Please. As though I have superiors. I'm an Archangel, you are well aware.”

 

“Yeah, you never bloody shut up about it. And I was fairly certain that, you being a Christian angel and all, that you did, in fact, have a superior.”

 

“There's only one authority higher than me, and if you think It has any consideration for the messes Anderson has made, you are wrong indeed. The Archangels make all the decisions, or at least we do when it comes to our religion. I'd be rather useless trying to order the Kami around, they'd just laugh at me and tell me to piss off. However, Moriarty _is_ a demon of the Christian faith, and therefore in my jurisdiction. I was the one who put him in prison in the first place, _that's_ why it's my job to get him back. I need you to help. You're slightly less useless than the rest of what London has to offer.”

 

John let out a light laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'm just the only one that puts up with your bullshit. I know for a fact that you'll decide to follow me everywhere until the job is finished.”

 

“Don't undersell yourself,” Sherlock scolded. “You're good at this, although the fact that you haven't attacked me yet is a definite plus. The last exorcist I worked with was convinced I was a demon in disguise. And I have to say that I'm happy you broke up with that dreadful girlfriend of yours, it was extremely awkward to follow you on those dates.”

 

“Maybe you shouldn't have done that.”

 

“And I have a feeling we're going to have to jump faiths a bit. Most of the exorcists will blindly refuse to acknowledge any religion but their own. You're one of the most open minded exorcists here, and I'm going to need someone who can work outside of my jurisdiction.”

 

“I thought you said we were after a demon from Christian lore?”

 

“We are,” Sherlock agreed. “But we have to find him first.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Sherlock sighed and shifted slightly, embarrassed. “My brother Mycroft lost sight of him. We can only read him as a Priority One possession. Unfortunately, there are about a dozen Priority One possessions in London alone.”

 

“So we need to systematically start exorcising them until we flush them out?” John blanched slightly at the thought.

 

Sherlock smiled a bright, genuine smile. “Exactly.”

 

“I've never performed a Priority One exorcism,” John sighed. “I don't know if I've got it in me. I barely made it through that Priority Three today.”

 

“You wouldn't be alone,” Sherlock assured him. “I've been building a team. I've got a demonologist and a demon hunter already enlisted in this cause, not to mention a Priority Seven that owes me several rather large favors. I will be assisting as well. The last piece we're missing is a skilled exorcist.”

 

“I am _not_ working with a demon.”

 

“You'll like Irene. She's an enormous bitch and rather crazy, but still good fun all around.” Sherlock paused for a moment. “Actually, scratch that, you'll probably hate her. She's a succubus, and I forget that you have a weakness for women that I myself am not burdened by.”

 

“You make me sound like a slag.”

 

“Well...”

 

“Don't.”

 

“Well, she's necessary,” Sherlock finally insisted, a slight whine in his voice. “She's worked with Moriarty in the past and knows his habits much better than I could ever hope to. She's also very clever and none of the demons have realized she's been helping Heaven. She's our inside woman and, yes, you will probably hate her, but there are more important things to be worried about.”

 

“Speaking of,” John said, latching onto the 'more important things' bit. “What, exactly, will happen if we fail? Or in the far more likely event that I refuse to do this ridiculous thing?” 

 

“We both know that you won't refuse,” Sherlock said impatiently. “You live for the thrill of the chase. You love danger, you're addicted to adrenaline. This will be a fix like nothing else and, if you really want to know, Moriarty's imprisonment will tip the balance of Heaven and Hell.”

 

“You mean...?”

 

“If Moriarty is allowed to do as he pleases, demons will become stronger than angels. All Hell will _literally_ break loose. If he is successfully imprisoned, Heaven will once again reign. It's a significant struggle, I believe.”

 

John was quiet for a moment. “I'll do it,” he said at last. “Don't have much of a choice, do I? Yeah, I'll be your exorcist. God help me, every time I agree to help you I end up worse off than I was before.”

 

Sherlock looked extremely pleased with himself. “Ah, but you're earning yourself a rather lovely place in the afterlife. One where I can bother you every day, provided I don't have any annoying Archangel jobs to deal with.”

 

“That is not Heaven,” John said, slightly worried. “That is Hell. That is a horrible, horrible Hell.”

 

Sherlock waved him off. “You like me much more than you'll ever admit. Do you forget I'm an Archangel? I can hear your thoughts. This entire conversation has been a formality.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Sherlock got to his feet. “I shall leave you for the evening, allow you to get your rest. I'll return in the morning and introduce you to the rest of the group. You're going to have to get started right away.”

 

“No, stop. What was that about the mind reading?”

 

“Sleep well,” Sherlock said, releasing his silver wings with a flash on incandescent light, flapping them once, and disappearing from the flat entirely, leaving a cold and empty feeling in his wake.

 

_Did all of that just happen? ANDWHAT WAS THAT ABOUT THE MIND READING?_

John flushed a deep scarlet, worrying over what errant thoughts Sherlock had picked up. _Although,_ John rationalized, _I certainly couldn't have had the_ dirtiest _thoughts that Sherlock has ever heard. I'm sure he's had plenty of people admiring his eyes. And his hands. And his arse. Goddammit._

 

John wandered into his kitchen, made himself a cup of tea, and stared at it for an indeterminate amount of time before dumping the cold liquid in the sink and going to bed.

 

Still red from humiliation, John curled up under his covers and willed himself to sleep, knowing that he would need the rest of today had been any indication of what tomorrow would be like.

 

… …

 

“Wake up,” a deep voice ordered John.

 

The exorcist cracked a sleep eye open and jumped when he saw the angel peering at him from about two inches away.

 

John took a few deep breaths and composed himself. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock,” John said calmly.

 

“Good morning or whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Get dressed and feed yourself. You need to meet the rest of your team.”

 

“Already? It's barely dawn!”

 

“Hell doesn't run on circadian rhythm, why should Heaven? Get yourself together, we have things to do.”

 

Sherlock let the bedroom with a swirl of his coat. John stared at the wall, had a tiny crisis, and did what the angel told him to do.

 

He briefly longed for the days before the Reveal, when everything was horrible but at least it made sense.

 

He stumbled out of his bedroom fully dressed somehow managed to make his way to the kitchen, where he prepared tea and toast in a haze of muscle memory. Sherlock stood at the door to the kitchen, impatiently tapping his foot and probably trying to urge John along with sheer force of will.

 

John chugged down his tea as soon as it was prepared, scalding his tongue, and just grabbed the toast to eat on the way. He knew Sherlock a little bit too well to goad him by taking any longer than what was absolutely necessary.

 

“Well, where are we headed?” John asked as Sherlock pushed in front of him to lead the way.

 

“Baker Street,” Sherlock answered.

 

“I don't know where that is.”

 

“You don't need to, we're taking a cab.”

 

John once found it funny that angels used the London taxi service, but after spending enough time working with Sherlock Holmes, less and less about angels was still managing to surprise him. For instance, he used to think that angels were kind benevolent creatures.

 

 

Not even a little, in Sherlock's case. John had originally believed that he was Fallen, as only his wingless brothers had ever shown so much hate and scorn towards humanity in John's presence before. It turned out that a lot of angels felt that way, most of them just managed to bite their tongue.

 

Apparently after eons of existence, Sherlock had given up and just started saying whatever came to mind and damn the repercussions.

 

It wasn't until they had been sitting in the cab quietly for some time when Sherlock finally said, “Alright, you've got questions.”

 

“Yeah, who's this Moriarty bloke?”

 

“Demon,” Sherlock said shortly. “Very old, very powerful. He used to get up to a lot of bad things, but has been in confinement for several centuries. He escaped four days ago.”

 

“If he's so old and powerful, why haven't I heard of him?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, you have. I tend to refer to Moriarty as a spider, but very long ago, your world knew him as a snake.”

 

John froze. “You mean the snake in Eden? That was supposed to be Lucifer.”

 

Sherlock waved the thought off. “Lucifer isn't a demon. He's a Fallen. There's a distinction, which you know, don't pretend otherwise. Somewhere along the line they got mixed up. No, Lucifer's a right arse, but Moriarty is the one who has been directing mankind towards destruction. By the time we captured him, he had already built up a massive network that carried on all of his evil deeds in his absence. With him free, I can only imagine where he will try to bring the world.”

 

“Unless we find him,” John pointed out. “We _will_ find him, won't we?”

 

“That's the hope,” Sherlock said, a tad grimly. “That's what the demonologist and the hunter are working on as we speak. They're tracking any and all Priority One activities in the country, not just London. Irene has been looking for him underground, but has turned up nothing. We're fairly confident he's on the surface and planning to wreak havoc.”

 

“And Irene is the demon.”

  
“Yes, you're about to meet her. Fair warning, try not to look her in the eye. If you're going to focus on any part of her, I would recommend the talons. A bit of a turn off, those. Keep you from getting too distracted.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Don't worry. I've exorcised my fair share of incubi and succubi. I've come out with my virtue intact.”

 

“Irene is...very good at what she does, John. And she has a fair bit of interest in me, so try not to get too jealous.”

 

“Jealous? What are you--”

 

“We're here. Hurry up John, it won't do to keep this crowd waiting.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My disclaimer remains the same. I neither support nor oppose any formal religious institution. Any distortion is product of storytelling, not of religious beliefs.

John felt out of place immediately. He walked into a decent sized sitting room and found two people very hard at work, and one distinctly-less-human person in some sort of trance. Sherlock sauntered into the room like he fully belonged there, leaving John to follow meekly behind.

 

“I've got him,” Sherlock declared tiredly, like John was an errant child that needed to be chased down the street. “Introduce yourselves.”

 

Sherlock faffed off down the hall, to do who knows what, and John stood really awkwardly, pinned by three pairs of curious eyes.

 

“Greg Lestrade,” a muscled, scarred, and grey haired man introduced, holding out a calloused hand to shake. “Demon hunter. Used to trap them and give them to the angels, back in the day, but now I usually just destroy the bastards.”

 

The woman in a trance cleared her throat and opened her eyes. She stood, a trailing translucent black silk behind her. John took Sherlock's advice and focused nether on her beautiful face or frankly incredible body. He stuck his gaze to the long black, terrifying talons at the ends of her fingers.

 

“John Watson,” she said, her voice sultry and low. “Sherlock has talked so much about you. Forgive me, but you are not what I expected.”

 

John felt a flash of irritation and smiled, unable to resist the urge to lift his chin and meet her eyes, Sherlock’s advice be damned.

 

He was...disappointed. Sherlock made it seem as though she would be irresistible, but John felt nothing more than the passing attraction he experienced around any beautiful woman.

 

“You're not what I expected either,” he said honestly. “Pleased to meet you. Irene, was it?”

 

She smiled, and it looked more like an aggressive baring of teeth than anything else. “Pleasure's all mine,” she said with a distinct lack of sincerity. She sat back down on the sofa and closed her eyes again.

 

John turned his attention to the last member of the group.

 

“Molly,” she said shyly, holding out her hand. “Molly Hooper.”

 

“You're the demonologist, then?” John clarified, returning her surprisingly firm grip.

 

“Just a hobbyist,” she corrected, flustered. “I'm not sure why Sherlock recruited me.”

 

“Because you're the best,” the angel interrupted, emerging from wherever he had gotten off to. “And you'll work with me.”

 

“That seems to be an important qualifier with you,” John pointed out fondly. “Maybe if you weren't such a prick most of the time...”

 

Molly and Greg both looked a little shocked at John's boldness, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

 

“I'm an archangel,” he said, sounding miffed. “I'm allowed to be rude to you pathetic mortals.”

 

“Until you need our help, you prat,” John continued. “So what exactly is going on then? We're sweeping London, looking for a Priority One?”

 

“That's what Irene is doing,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the succubus. “She's locating the demonic energies. Greg's job is to hunt them down once she determines their general area, Molly's job is to figure out what demon we're dealing with, your job is to kick them out of their hosts, and my job is to interrogate them to see what they know about Moriarty and where he might be hiding.” Sherlock took a seat in a leather arm chair, gesturing for John to sit opposite.

 

“Where will the exorcisms take place?” John asked, taking the offered seat.

 

Sherlock gave him a slightly confused look.

 

John rolled his eyes. “Do we really have to go through this every single time, Sherlock? I need to perform the exorcisms on holy ground. I won't be able to prevent the demon from just leaving and going somewhere else, otherwise.”

 

Sherlock waved him off. “Oh, yes. You're going to deal with that.”

 

John sighed and took out his phone, scrolling through contacts. “I'll call Father Murray,” he said, selecting the name. “I'll see if they can clear out the old chapel and let us make a work station of it.”

 

John got up and gave Sherlock a questioning look, wondering where he could talk without disturbing the rest of the group. The angel indicated the kitchen with a flick of his head and John went to there to make his call.

 

… …

 

“So how do you know John?” Molly asked Sherlock tentatively. She sounded insecure, the same way she did whenever she talked about Irene, and Sherlock frowned inwardly.

 

“He's my exorcist,” Sherlock said simply. “The only one in the city that will work with me. We've done several jobs together now, although it has been nearly a year since the last, when John expressed the desire to cease working relations. That was my fault, I accidentally dropped him off the top of a building.”

 

“You what?” Lestrade asked, suddenly a lot more interested in the conversation.

 

“Long story,” Sherlock said, brushing it aside. “I caught him. He was fine. Told me he needed some time away, that working directly with Heaven was too exhausting for him. He's spent the last year working as the 'consulting exorcist' and pitching in with whatever religious sect needed him at the time. I've kept an eye on him, and he's still the best exorcist in London, although he doesn't look like much.”

 

“I can hear you,” John called from the kitchen.

  
“It's your fault for wearing those horrid jumpers,” Sherlock retorted.

 

“They're cheap and it takes more time for acidic spit to burn through them,” John yelled. “Now shut up, I'm making a phone call.”

 

Sherlock turned back to Molly. “He knows what he's doing, ability to dress himself notwithstanding. You don't need to worry about him holding his own.”

 

“I'm not worried about that,” Molly said hurriedly. “I was just wondering...I mean, you two seem so close.”

 

“I have to agree, Sherlock darling,” Irene said from the couch. “If I had known you were taken, I wouldn't have signed up for this. Now what am I going to get out of this arrangement?”

 

“Your freedom,” Sherlock said shortly.

 

“We're not a couple!” John yelled from the kitchen.

 

“I used to live with him,” Sherlock answered Molly. “When we were working those jobs, it was easier for me just to stay corporal and hang around his flat.” Sherlock shrugged. “I'm not sure how human relationships work, but I believe we were, at one point, friends. Or, as much as I can have a mortal friend.”

 

“And then you dropped me off a building,” John said, putting his phone away as he reentered the sitting room.

 

“Accidentally,” Sherlock added quickly.

 

“With purpose and intent,” John argued. “You said, 'John, I'm going to drop you. Don't worry, if you die, you'll go to heaven,' and then you dropped me off a building.”

 

“I caught you again,” Sherlock insisted.

 

“Barely,” John said, sitting back down. “Father Murray says that they'll help us clean out the old chapel. It's not in use anymore, but it's still on holy ground. Of course, we'll have to get the demons there.”

 

“My job,” Greg said, raising his hand slightly. “I can wrangle them, don't worry about that. You've got the tough job.”

 

“I know,” John sighed. “I'm going to need more holy water. And some belladonna. Holy oil too. God, I could think of an entire list.”

 

“Make one,” Sherlock ordered. “We'll be getting started sooner rather than later, and it wouldn't do to have you killed due to lack of preparation.”

 

“Speaking of sooner,” Irene interrupted, opening her eyes again. “There's a Priority One mucking around central London. You'd better get your little chapel ready quickly. It's on the move.”

 

… …

 

“Are you sure this Murray fellow is a friend and not someone who secretly hates you?” Sherlock asked, looking at the dusty, cluttered ruins of a chapel with disgust.

 

“It's the best we've got,” John sighed. “I'm not going to make them put any of their exorcisms or holy works on halt just because we need their space. Pass me that rag. I think there's an entire colony of spiders in that corner.”

 

“I hate spiders,” Sherlock muttered, handing John the rag.

 

“You could help,” John added, squashing the arachnids Sherlock professed to despise.

 

Sherlock nudged a cardboard box with his foot. “No,” he said at last, turning and walking out of the chapel.

 

“Prick,” John muttered. “Oh. Oy! Get back here!”

 

Sherlock came back. “What?”

 

“If you're going to be useless, go back to my flat and get my bag of supplies. I need to be ready when Greg comes back.”

 

“Lestrade said that it could take a few hours for him to find the demon,” Sherlock pointed out.

  
“A few hours that I will be spending cleaning out this chapel. Get my bag for me.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and releasing his wings.

 

He vanished in that annoying flash of heavenly light and John continued with his work.

 

An hour later, the chapel was looking noticeably emptier, although it was still absolutely filthy. He chased out he rats with resigned determination and squashed any creepy crawly things that were just too gross for him to ignore.

 

Sherlock finally flashed back and dropped John's bag.

 

“Greg called me,” he explained. “Apparently he got the thing's trail. Or, they found some of the bodies he's been leaving behind. Greg used to be a police officer. He called some friends on the force who helped make a connection between some unsolved deaths and this demon.”

 

“Unsolved deaths?”

 

“Yes. Scotland Yard has been dealing with a string of serial suicides and didn't think it wise to contact a demon hunter. Idiots.”

 

“Serial suicides?!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, John. Do you live under a rock? A bunch of people have killed themselves in identical ways. We're dealing with a suicide demon here. And a dangerous one at that. Keep cleaning, this is going to be a rough one.”

 

… …

 

“He's moving quickly,” Greg said, keeping Molly on the line. “I can't figure out how he's traveling, or where he's picking his victims from.”

 

He heard the sound of Molly frantically flipping through books. “Well, there are a _bunch_ of suicide demons,” Molly said, likely skimming through enormous amounts of text. “From a lot of different faiths. It would depend on who we're dealing with. There's one that seeks out people who are ready to kill themselves, and they just give the final push.”

 

“Doesn't look like that's the case,” Greg said, shaking his head, although she couldn't see it.

 

“Um, there's one that possesses people and forces them to kill themselves.”

 

“No.”

 

“There's one that violently murders the families of the victims so they kill themselves in grief.”

 

“No. Thank Christ for that one.”

 

“There's a guy kidnaps people and threatens them into killing themselves.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“And then there's a guy who tricks people into playing a game with him.”

 

“You're going to have to be a little more specific with that one, Molly.”

 

Molly rustled with more papers. “Um. His whole thing is that everything is done voluntarily. He tricks people into following him, then he convinces them to play some sort of game of chance where the loser dies. But he's rigged it, of course. There's no way he could possibly lose.”

 

“All the victims are taking poison,” Greg pointed out. “And there's no sign of a struggle. Could that be part of the game?”

 

“I don't know,” Molly said, sounding flustered. “These books are vague, and most of these stories are just that—stories. Centuries old with little factual basis. The only solid information we have is from the Reveal forward. That's only five years; few significant demons have even been caught in that time.”

 

“Let's just hypothesize that we're dealing with the game master guy,” Greg finally said. “If you're going to lure someone away, how would you do it?”

 

“I don't know. I'd be bad at it. I'd probably make up some fake emergency that I need their help with.”

 

“The police reports don't say anything like that. No witnesses to something like that, at least. The victims just...disappeared.”

 

“What were they doing?”

 

Greg stopped walking and sat at a nearby bench, taking out his pocket notebook. “Victim one was heading home from an airport. Victim two was out with a friend, he went home to grab an umbrella. Victim three was at a party, no one knows when she left. Victim four was on a business trip. And Irene just led us to victim five. We don't know what he had been doing yet.”

 

“Well, none of them were home.”

 

“What?” Greg asked.

 

Molly stuttered slightly. “That's all I can connect. None of them were home. They were all out and about. I don't know. I mean, I guess that makes more sense. You can't subtly kidnap someone from their home.”

 

“Listen, I'll call you back, Molly,” Greg sighed. “I'll consult with Sherlock and, if I have to, Irene. Text me if you find anything new.”

 

“Alright. Bye. Good luck!”

 

Greg hung up and sighed, looking up at the perpetually overcast sky for a moment.

 

He suddenly became aware that someone was sitting beside him, although he didn't register anyone approach.

 

He turned and jumped. “Jesus!”

 

“Sherlock, actually,” the annoying angel corrected. “You wanted to consult? Any more progress?”

 

“Just, stuck on some of the details,” Greg sighed. “If you had to kidnap someone out of a crowd, how would you do it?”

 

“Pretend to be someone they trust, of course,” Sherlock said promptly.

 

Greg raised an eyebrow. “That's it? What, disguise yourself as a friend or family member?”   


Sherlock scoffed. “Of course not. You would be amazed at the number of strangers you humans will trust with your lives. You trust cooks not to poison your food. You trust doctors to prescribe the right pills. You trust bus drivers to be sober at the wheel. You trust airplane pilots not to shirk their responsibilities. As a child, you trust teachers to let you go home and you trust the parents of you classmates and friends to be responsible for you. Complete strangers, all these people, and they hold your life in their hands. Terrifying thought, isn't it?”

 

“I'll say,” Greg said heavily. “So...what? Dress up as a police officer and tell the victim they're in danger? Bystanders would remember that.”

 

“So you're looking for an exit that bystanders wouldn't remember?”

 

“Yes,” Greg said with a sigh.

 

“There was a woman in a green jumper across the street. She departed very suddenly with a stranger thirty seconds ago. Did you notice her leave?”

 

Greg looked over to the other side of the street, saw only a few passerby, and looked back to Sherlock. “No? What happened?” Had they really just sat by during a kidnapping?

 

“She got in a cab,” Sherlock said simply.

 

He disappeared in a flash of white light.

 

Greg got a text an instant later.

 

**Contact me when you’re ready to go after him. I have something you will need. –SH**

 

… …

 

Sherlock reappeared looking monstrously smug.

 

“Solve the mystery, then?” John asked, smiling.

 

“Oh, at times I wish I was a mortal,” Sherlock sighed. “I would have had so much fun, solving puzzles like this. Lestrade really was hopeless, I'm glad he wanted to talk to me, he never would have figured it out on his own.”

 

“Oh? What was it then?”

 

“Molly and Lestrade figured out it was a suicide demon all by themselves,” Sherlock said, sounding like a condescending parent. “They probably even figured out which kind. He just needed help figuring out what the demon was posing as to get people to follow it.”

 

“And you figured it out?”

 

“I figured it out!” Sherlock crowed. “He's pretending to be a cabbie! Oh, it's brilliant. People hop into his cab like nothing's wrong, and then he tricks them into dying. Lovely. It feels like Christmas.”

 

“For an angel, you're rather fond of death.”

 

“I'm an archangel,” Sherlock reminded him. “I'm a warrior by nature. Dealing with demons is just sort of what we do.”

 

“Well congratulations,” John said, mopping the chapel floor. “So Greg is on the right track?”

 

“Oh it will be hours yet before we can find him, but yes. I would say that we're heading in the right direction now.”

 

“Good,” John said. “Pick up a mop. We need to keep cleaning the chapel.”   


“But John...”

 

“Now. Sherlock. Stop whining and help, you giant, immortal child.”

 

Sherlock grumbled and muttered and cursed and insulted John for several moments, but eventually he did pick up a mop, so John counted that as a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!   
> You can follow me for updates and excerpts at emptycel.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

“How will we go about catching it?” Molly asked over the phone.

 

“That’s my job,” Greg reminded her. “You’ve done your part. You don’t need to worry about me now. I’ll need a little bit of time to figure out how I’m going to hunt it down, but once I do we’re good to go. Can you call John and give him the status update?”

 

“Of course,” Molly assured him. “Be careful, and good luck.”

 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Greg hung up the phone and stared up at the sky, wondering how the hell he was supposed to do this. Hopefully he would manage to keep from getting himself killed, but in all honesty he didn’t have too much confidence in himself.

 

… …

 

“Lovely,” John decided, looking at the relatively clean space. “I mean, it still needs some work, but it will do for now. Sherlock, I’m heading off to my supplier. I need to stock up on a few things.”

 

Sherlock waved him off, staring off into space. “Go on. We’ll be fine without you for a while.”

 

“Well, goodbye then--” John frowned as the ringing of his mobile cut him off. He thumbed open the lock screen and saw that Molly was calling him. “Hello?”

 

“Hi, it’s Molly. Greg asked me to give you a status update.”

 

“Yeah? How’s it going?”

 

“He’s working on a plan to track the demon. After that he’s bringing it straight to the chapel.”

 

“Awesome,” John said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I’m just popping out briefly, but I’ll be here by the time we’re ready to start.”

 

“Alright, I’ll be heading over myself in an hour or so. Sherlock wanted me to observe the exorcism.”

 

“Did he?” John shot Sherlock a look. “Look Molly, the exorcisms can be extremely dangerous for civilians--”

 

“Sherlock said he’d keep an eye on me,” Molly continued in the tones of the hopelessly besotted. “He said he’d make sure that I wouldn’t get hurt.”

 

“That’s…lovely Molly, but understand that I’m still worried for your sake.”

 

“I’ll be alright,” Molly said confidently. “I’ll let you go now. I need to do a little bit more research myself.”

 

“Sure. Just--” John sighed and gave up. “Ask Father Murray, he’s at the main church, to bless you before you enter the chapel.” The blessing would be flimsy armor, but it would be better than nothing.

 

“I will,” she agreed enthusiastically. “Bye-bye!”

 

“Bye.”

 

John hung up and felt old. “It’s on your head if she gets hurt,” he told Sherlock sternly, who ignored him completely. “Right. I’ll just do the shopping then.”

 

John left to do the shopping.

 

… …

 

Greg would have liked to pretend that it was due to his own tenacity and cunning that he found the demon, but really it was because he got into the cab.

 

He figured that he would head back to Baker Street, read a bit about this particular kind of demon, and sketch out a plan of attack before he ran headlong into the demon underground, hoping to find the bastard he was looking for.

 

Apparently the bastard in question didn’t take too kindly to being hunted, and decided to be proactive about the matter.

 

Fortunately, Greg hadn’t survived being a demon hunter this long without having some really top notch instincts. So as soon as he sat down in the back seat, he knew that something was wrong.

 

Demons are…difficult to describe. There’s something about them that feels wrong. Greg had always compared it to leaving a crowded, busy room and returning a moment later to find it empty and dead silent. There was an absence to them, a dark threatening absence that made you both want to investigate like an idiot or turn around and run away as fast as humanly possible.

 

So he knew as soon as he had gotten in the cab that he had fucked up as hugely as he was capable of fucking up.

 

“Where to?” the cabbie asked in a rough accent, surprisingly calm and pleasant.

 

Greg decided to play the idiot. “221B Baker Street,” he responded carelessly, pulling out his phone and pretending to pay attention to anything but the man in front of him.

 

The cab started moving and Greg sent a quick text.

 

**May have made a mistake. Backup? –Lestrade**

There was a response an instant after the text was sent.

 

**You’re an idiot. –SH**

… …

 

John packed up his newly acquired supplies with the sense of content satisfaction that accompanies the completion of any task.

 

Then he felt his phone buzz and all his happy feelings when away.

 

**Lestrade has found the demon. Pursuing now, prepare for exorcism. –SH**

It was from an unknown number, but the SH cleared quite a few things up. John ignored the fact that he had never given Sherlock his mobile number, nor had he ever seen the angel pull out a phone. John simply filed the incident under a mental list titled “Sherlock’s Stupid Angel Shit” and headed back to the chapel.

 

He hoped Molly remembered to get the blessing from Father Murray. He also hoped that Greg would be alright. He sent out a quick prayer to whatever deity may be currently listening and hoped that everything would work out alright.

 

… …

 

“So Greg’s in the cab with him?” Molly asked Sherlock, her voice high with panic and concern. He rolled his eyes privately but nodded.

 

“Yes. That is what I explicitly told you moments ago. I can’t directly interfere or else the demon will vanish and go deep underground.” Sherlock gave her a level look. “The deepest underground.”

 

Molly looked at him blankly.

 

“I mean Hell, Molly,” Sherlock clarified.

 

“Well, that would be a better place for it than London, wouldn’t it?” Molly asked reasonably.

 

“Considering the demon isn’t Moriarty, no.” Sherlock continued before Molly could ask questions. “Moriarty isn’t a suicide demon. I knew it wasn’t him as soon as we linked the serial killings to Priority One activity. He might, however, have information. That’s what we need. I can interrogate him as soon as John forces him from his corporeal body. If he gets nervous and runs to hide in Hell, we lose any information he might have.”

 

“So why are you talking to me then?” Molly interrupted. “If Greg is with the demon, why aren’t you detaining him?”

 

“Because I can’t imprison him until he’s incorporeal,” Sherlock repeated impatiently. “If I show up, he’ll run. I just said this, Molly.”

 

“How am I supposed to help?!” she snapped back. “All I’m good for is flipping through dusty old books and taking notes, I can’t help trap a demon.”

 

Sherlock smiled. “But I know who can.”

 

“Then why don’t you go to them?”

 

“Because he’ll likely tell me to piss off, he’s already got himself a job. He won’t do it if he’s ordered to, he’ll do it because he knows it’s the right thing to do. But I know him, and he’ll need to come to that decision on his own.”

 

Molly was silent for only a moment. “You’re talking about John Watson, aren’t you?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, I am.” Sherlock handed her a small case. It was black and smaller than a post-it note. “I’m going to need you to be a bit manipulative, Molly.”

 

Molly shook her head violently. “I’m no good for that, Sherlock. You know I couldn’t lie convincingly to John. He’s seems like a sweet man.”

 

“You’ve fallen for his trap, then. You don’t become known city wide as The Consulting Exorcist for being a sweet man. That case I just handed you? I was going to give that to Lestrade, but he’s gotten himself snapped up in the web quicker than I anticipated. I have the feeling that John will need it now if we’re going to take down Hope.”

 

“Hope?”

 

“The demon,” Sherlock said, smiling in appreciation of the irony. “I’m familiar with him. The name makes sense when you see how he tricks his victims. He gives them something very dangerous before he kills them.”  

 

… …

 

The demon wasn’t even being subtle about deviating from the route he was supposed to take. Consequently, Greg didn’t bother to call him out on it. He just let the atmosphere in the cab grow both simultaneously more tense and awkward before the demon finally spoke.

 

“So, you’ll be knowing who I am, then,” he finally ventured.

 

“I have a general idea, yeah,” Greg responded, wishing he was being intentionally vague instead of just genuinely confused about the details.

 

“The name is Hope,” he introduced himself. “Because that’s what I’m going to give to you right before you die.”

 

“Er.”

 

“I think it’s kinder, honestly; to die with hope alive in your heart instead of desolate and hardened towards your fate without the barest glimmer of reprieve. I don’t see myself as a bad guy. I give people much better deaths than they were probably going to have anyway. I can’t understand what all the fuss was about.”

 

“Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was still murder?” Greg suggested a bit roughly.

 

Hope just shrugged. “It isn’t really murder if they kill themselves now, ain’t it? I don’t force them to do it, really. I just talk to them, and they kill themselves.”

 

“Forcing someone to commit suicide is murder.”

 

“But I don’t force,” Hope repeated, still cheerful. “I’m not even violent. I just—you know what, you’ll see soon enough.”

 

… …

 

“John?” Molly stepped tentatively inside the chapel.

 

“Right here!” John called from behind some boxes. “I’m just fortifying this place a bit better.” He held up a bottle of holy water as proof. “Can’t really overdo this, to be honest.”

 

“Right…” Molly gave up any attempts at manipulation before she started and decided to give honesty a shot. “John, there’s a problem.”

 

“What’s wrong?” John came over, looking deeply concerned.

 

“It’s Greg…I uh…he’s, um, having some issues with the demon?”

 

“Molly,” John’s voice became much sterner. “You’re going to have to explicitly tell me what’s going on.”

 

Molly took a deep breath. “Greg got into the demon’s cab,” she started. John’s eyes went wide and Molly knew that the truth would be the best tactic here after all. “The situation has gone completely out of our control. Sherlock can’t intervene, or else we’ll lose the demon, and no one…none of us can…”

 

“Molly, calm down,” John ordered her. “What has Sherlock said?”

 

She reached into her pocket and took out the small black case. “He gave me this,” she said. “Right before he ran off to do ‘damage control,’ whatever that means. Apparently he was going to give it to Greg, said that it was necessary for trapping the demon, but Greg got caught up by the demon before he was prepared and…”

 

“Why didn’t he give this to Greg in the beginning, then?” John asked, accepting the case even though he was confused.

 

Molly shrugged. “Said he hadn’t had the chance to. Knowing Sherlock, though, he was waiting for the most dramatic moment possible so he could get a chance to sweep in as our savior. I guess the moment got away from him.”

 

“That does sound like Sherlock,” John said ruefully. He hesitated for a moment before opening it up. He swore rather loudly when he saw the contents.

 

“What is it?” Molly asked, burning with curiosity. She had resisted and temptation to open it on the way over and was dying to know what could be so important.

 

John showed her. Lying in the center of the case, in a nest of velvet lining, was a single gleaming bullet.

 

“Is that a Blessed Bullet?” Molly asked, her eyes wide. Those were…those were beyond rare. Molly never thought that she would see one. She had though that the demons had done their best to eradicate them from existence.

 

John nodded. “Silver melted in Angel Fire. Molded and blessed by priests, cooled in holy water. This will utterly destroy most demons. Not a Priority One…but it would hurt like hell and trap him in his corporeal body. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had this one made for this exact task.”

 

“I guess…Greg was supposed to shoot the demon?” Molly suggested, hoping that question was enough to get John’s thoughts headed down the right path.

 

The man nodded grimly. “Looks like someone else will have to do it now.”

 

John closed the case and shoved it in his pocket. He turned and headed over to a duffel bag tossed carelessly on the ground. He dug through it and pulled out a handgun, the sight of which made Molly jump.

 

“It’s the right caliber,” John said thoughtfully. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sherlock pulled some sneaky angel bullshit so I’d have to be the one to fire this bullet.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“Fuck if I know,” John shrugged. “I gave up trying to understand angels a long time ago. Or at least I gave up trying to understand Sherlock. Do you have any idea where Greg is headed?”

 

Molly shook her head. “But Sherlock will. I don’t know where he went, but he’ll get in contact when he’s needed.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “I swear to God,” he looked skywards. “Yes, You. I swear, if You do not put that idiot on a leash, I will.”

 

… …

 

Hope led Greg through the abandoned building at gunpoint. Greg wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this one alive. He had a few escape plans set up, but the biggest issue would be getting away without scaring off the demon. The last thing he wanted was for the bastard to get nervous and take off back into the depths of hell.

 

He wondered at the demon’s choice of host as well. Oftentimes, the fiends chose a body that suited them. The possessed the powerful and the wicked. They possessed the weak and the scared. A shabby looking cabbie with tired eyes didn’t fit the usual bill.

 

“He’s dying,” Hope said, either guessing or outright hearing Greg’s thoughts. “I’m the only thing holding this body together. It would be better for me to just kill him, really, save him the pain of his natural death.”

 

“That wouldn’t be God’s plan,” Greg pointed out. He didn’t see Hope roll his eyes, but he had the sense of it happening.

 

“A religious one, are you? Great. You lot are the worst.”

 

Greg was surprised. “Kind of hard not to be religious when you deal with angels and demons on a daily basis.”

 

Hope scoffed. “Do you know how many of these people genuinely believe in any deity? Not nearly as many as those who claim they do. Besides, I’m not even a Christian demon. Your God doesn’t mean much to me.”

 

“I don’t think we’re here to debate theology,” Greg pointed out as Hope sat them at a long table, facing each other. “You’re supposed to be trying to convince me to kill myself.”

 

“No. You’ve got it wrong,” Hope said with a kind smile. “I don’t convince you to do anything. We talk for a bit, then we play a game. So, tell me about yourself. I know you’re a demon hunter, and you’ve been asking about me.”

 

Greg acknowledged the accuracy of the information with a slight tilt of his head. “My name is Greg. I used to be a police officer. After the Reveal, I thought I could be of more help if I went after demons. I trapped them for a bit, gave them to the angels and they provided food and shelter for me in return. After about a year ago, I came across a demon I had trapped before. I found out that most angels didn’t kill demons, just punished them and freed them again. So I decided to take matters in my own hands. Started hunting.” He shrugged.

 

“You’re a good hunter,” Hope said, sounding like he genuinely meant the praise. “But you don’t intend to kill me tonight. You intend to trap me.”   


Greg was happy he spent years as a cop. His interrogation face gave nothing away. 

 

“I want to know why,” Hope murmured, leaning back in his chair. “I want to know what changed the pattern.”

 

“I was hired to do a specific job,” Greg said, affecting a careless tone. “I didn’t ask for too many details. I just have to trap you.”

 

“You don’t have too many supplies on you,” Hope continued thoughtfully. “I know you have those bloody handcuffs the demonologists hand out like party favors. I know you’ve got holy water. But I also know that you have nothing on you that could keep me down long enough for you to get the cuffs on me. I snapped you up too quickly.”

 

“That you did,” Greg conceded. “My contact said that he had something for me, but he didn’t get the chance to hand it over. I’ll freely admit that I’m not quite ready to face you. But,” Greg pressed his palms flat on the table. “I think we’ve talked for long enough. Let’s play your game.”

 

“Eager are we?” Hope rummaged through his pockets for a moment before pulling out two glass bottles, each containing a single white pill. “These are the game pieces.”

 

… …

 

John got in the cab. His pocket buzzed as soon as he sat.

 

There was another text from the unknown number, containing only an address. John read it back to the cabbie and tried to relax in his seat.

 

He was going to murder Sherlock.

 

He didn’t know how he was going to do that, as angels are a little bit immortal, but he was going to figure something out and then he was going to kill him.

 

… …

 

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle,” Hope explained. “You choose one.”

 

“That’s a fifty-fifty chance,” Greg protested. “How have you murdered so many people on chance?”

 

Hope looked disappointed. “It’s not chance, it’s chess. I’m a demon, I know how people think. I know your hidden vices and your hidden desires. I know the things you pray for and the things you fear. I know how every little thought in your head connects and I know exactly what. Makes. You. Tick.” He punctuated each word with a tap on one of the glass bottles.

 

Greg crossed his arms over his chess and absorbed that for a moment. “No…no that’s still chance.”

 

“Chess,” Hope repeated insistently. “And here is my move.”

 

He slid one of the glass bottles in front of Greg. “Did I just give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle?”

 

“You are aware that I’ve seen _the Princess Bride_ , yeah?” Greg looked at the bottle disdainfully. “I know not to go up against a Sicilian when death is one the line and all shit. Both of those pills are poison.”

 

“No—no they aren’t.” Hope sounded genuinely exasperated. “What is with everyone and that movie? I mean, almost every single person I’ve played with has tried to pull that.”  He leaned forward. “I take the pill that you don’t take. We both have to take our medicine.”

 

“No, yeah. I’ve still seen the movie. Either you’ve got an immunity or you’re just holding off the effects. You’re a demon! You can’t get poisoned.”

 

“Look, either you play my game and have a fifty-fifty chance of survival, or I shoot you in the head.”

 

“Ha! You said chance! I told you it wasn’t chess.”

 

Hope slammed his hand down against the table. “Just take the bloody pill!”

 

… …

 

Two buildings. Of course there were two bloody buildings. John looked frantically between each one for a moment before giving up and picking on at random. It was a fifty-fifty chance, and he hoped that luck was on his side.

 

… …

 

“That’s not even a real gun,” Greg protested, hoping that if he delayed long enough Sherlock would figure something out. “That’s a lighter. I used to be a police officer, I know what a real gun looks like.”

 

Hope looked so ready just to break Greg’s neck and move on. “Look, either I’m going to kill you and you have no chance of survival, or you play my game and hope to win.” He pushed the bottle even closer to Greg. “Choose. You have thirty seconds.”

 

 _Have faith_ , Greg reminded himself. _Sherlock will figure something out. If not, I’ll follow him around in Heaven and try to drive him mad for the rest of eternity._

 

He unscrewed the cap with steady hands and dumped the pill into his palm.

 

“Interesting choice,” Hope said, sounding pleased. He unscrewed his own bottle. “Well, bottoms up.”

 

… …

 

John pulled out the pistol, happy he had loaded it with the single bullet before he left. He had exactly one shot with which to pull this off.

 

He just wished he had picked the right fucking building.

 

He watched the scene play out, looking for a clear shot. He took a deep breath, aimed the gun, and fired.

 

… …

 

A gunshot sounded close by and suddenly Hope wasn’t standing in front of him. He was knocked back on the ground, clutching his shoulder and whining in pain.

 

Greg reacted quickly and pulled his special handcuffs out of his coat pocket. He leaned over Hope and got him restrained.

 

The he wondered how the hell a bullet wound actually hurt a demon.

 

Greg had _heard_ of Blessed Bullets, but…

 

Also, where did that shot come from?

 

Greg went to the window, saw the bullet hole, and saw the open window from the next building over. That was nearly an impossible shot. He smiled. This had Sherlock written all over it. He pulled out his phone.

 

**Got him. Thanks for the divine intervention. –Lestrade**

**Don’t thank me. Thank John. –SH**

Greg blinked, wondering what that meant. Had John…? Greg shook his head. _No, couldn’t be. The man dressed like a teddy bear._

… …

 

John ran to the street and took several deep breaths. It had been a long time since he fired a gun, and the relief of making the shot nearly brought him to his knees.

 

He felt like he was about to have a heart attack, while simultaneously feeling more alive than he had in ages.

  
This was what happened every bloody time he worked with Sherlock.

 

The bastard better not have been lying about that place in Heaven. At this rate, John was going to need it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, I’ve made up the demons and researched the deities, so you might recognize some of the names mentioned. Also, I know fuck all about exorcisms, so that’s entirely made up. Sorry.

“Greg’s right behind me,” John announced, throwing the door of their commandeered chapel open. “Molly, tell me that you got blessed by the priest.”

 

“I got blessed by the priest,” she said, putting on a pair of leather gloves and tying her hair back. John nodded in approval.

 

“Sherlock, get out of my way for now. Remind me to punch you in the face later. I’ve told you time and time again that I’m not a hunter. Do not put me in that position again.”

 

“I never meant any harm,” Sherlock said sincerely. John ignored him.

 

John shed his jacket and tossed it to the side, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. He dragged an old wooden chair to the center of the small room and brought his supplies closer.

 

“Molly, I need to know what religion we’re dealing with.”

 

“Uh…” Molly looked nervous. “Pagan. Of the mostly Celtic and Gaul persuasion.”

 

John froze and rolled his eyes. “Of course we bloody are. Sherlock, dig through my bag. Try to find my cold iron. The belladonna wouldn’t hurt either. Do you know what you’re going to do with him once you’ve got him? He’s almost as far out of your jurisdiction as you can get.”

 

“Pagans and Christians have more in common than most would think,” Sherlock assured John. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a strong enough hold on him. If not, I’ll ask an old friend for help.”

 

“Which old friend?” John asked flatly.

 

Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably. “Esus.”

 

“No,” John refused. “Nope. Not that one.”

 

“He’s not as bad as you think,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “And he’s owes me. I’ve scratched his back--”

 

“Well, disinfect yourself and forget it,” John ordered. “Esus will not be making an appearance in my chapel.”

 

“Don’t be so closed minded, John,” Sherlock scoffed.

 

John crossed his arms. “Bring in Dagda or Epona or even bloody Cernunnos for fuck’s sake, but don’t bring Esus into this.”

 

“Just because his temples occasionally practiced human sacrifice doesn’t mean he’s a bad deity himself. We may need him.”

 

 

Sherlock wasn’t budging.

 

John refused to give in. “We aren’t stringing anyone up for his sake, end of discussion. Did you find my cold iron?”

 

Sherlock tossed John the manacles just as Greg threw open the chapel door. Hope was half draped over Greg as he brought him in.

 

“Set him in the chair,” John ordered, moving to help Greg. “Then get out of here and get blessed by the priest before you get anywhere near this chapel again.”

 

“No worries, I’m out,” Greg said. “I’ve had my fill for the day. I need to get some sleep.”

 

“I envy you,” John grumbled, thinking longingly of the bed he was pulled out of after only a few hours of sleep. “I’ve gotten nine hours of sleep in the past three days.”

 

“Good luck mate,” Greg said, sounding like he most definitely did not envy John in return. “Oh,” Greg paused for a second. “Hope said his vessel was dying. I don’t know how much faith we can put into the word of a demon, though.”

 

John groaned. “Molly, see if you can have some paramedics on standby.”

 

“No need,” Sherlock assured him, his wings sliding into existence for a moment. “My brother Mycroft is watching. He’ll make sure the vessel is either saved or ferried to heaven.”

 

“Good,” John sighed.

 

“Call me if you need me,” Greg said as he departed. “Please don’t need me.”

 

John took a breath and got moving again. “Right, Hope will wake up any second. I need some sage. I’m totally unprepared for dealing with pagans.”

 

“You _can_ do it though, right?” Molly asked, sounding nervous as she fished through her bag. “I’ve got some sage incense here. My flat’s haunted,” she said, by way of explanation. “I have to purify it regularly, ever since the Reveal woke the spirits up.”

 

John pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the sage when Molly handed it to him. “I can do the exorcism, in theory,” he answered her, after a moment. “I’ve practiced it, but I’ve never done it for real. I know who to invoke—NOT ESUS—and what to use. A crucifix is useless against this guy. Salt with sting like a son of a bitch. Holy water won’t purify, but sage will.”

 

“If you need any help--” Sherlock started.

 

“Not Esus,” John interrupted. “Couldn’t you have befriended any of the _nice_ Gaul deities?”

 

“They don’t like me.”

 

“No one does,” John muttered, tensing up as Hope began to stir. “Alright. Places people, it’s show time.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock was beginning to give Mycroft an enormous headache.

 

He was a nuisance to watch during the best of times, but whenever he decided to gallivant about Earth with all of his little friends, he made Mycroft’s job more difficult than it was worth.

 

Though if Sherlock was the price that Mycroft had to pay for leniency in his crimes, it was a price worth paying. After all, there was something oddly…lovable about Sherlock, once you broke through all of the prickly, abrasive behavior and general dislike for sentient creatures as a whole. And he was definitely the most interesting brother to be assigned to.

 

But still, Mycroft had a headache.

 

He delegated some of his other duties and settled back into his seat.

 

He was going to have to keep a close eye on this one.

 

… …

 

“Sherlock,” John asked, eyeing the stirring demon with a fair amount of trepidation. “Which of the Celtic gods is your equivalent?”

 

“I’ve already told you that I’ve worked with--”

 

“NO ESUS. C’mon, Sherlock is a Celtic name. If humanity named you there, you’ve got to have an equivalent. And no evil human sacrifice god.”

 

John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. “As if good and evil were so black and white. Fine, my counterpart is Brighid.”

 

“Counterpart?” Molly asked.

 

John answered quickly. “Archangels have their specialties. Were the Christians inclined to believe in more than one God, the archangels would be their demigods. For example, Saint Michael the Archangel is the number one warrior guy, his counterpart might be Aries. Gabriel the Archangel is the trumpeter of the Lord, he often acts as a messenger, his counterpart would be Hermes. Sherlock, in addition to being the patron saint of enormous dickheads, is the archangel of knowledge, and strangely, addiction.”

 

“Drug addiction, specifically,” Sherlock supplied cheerfully. “And you’re wrong. Raphael is the archangel of knowledge. We don’t get along very well.”

 

“Ah yes, I apologize,” John, heavily sarcastic. “Sherlock is the archangel of _observation_ and _deduction_. So when I say counterpart, I mean whichever deity represents the most similar things. You said—what did you say?”

 

“Brighid.”

 

“Something I can pronounce, please.”

 

“Brigit. Called Caridwen first.”

 

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “The closest thing to a god of vice is Cernunnos.”

 

John threw his hands up. “Yes, great. Let’s bring the half-stag sex god into all of this. If this hell spawn here doesn’t have any good information, I’m going to punch you in the face, Sherlock. Twice.”

 

“Dissention in the ranks?” a rough voice asked.

 

John turned back and faced a conscious and irritated Hope.

 

“Not yet, but give it time,” John said earnestly. “I’ve only had to deal with him for a day.”

 

“I know you, Sherlock,” Hope said, looking through John and to the impassive archangel. “You come from my world.”

 

“Not really,” Sherlock said, wrinkling up his nose. “Definitely under the authority of the one God and all that. And It doesn’t appreciate you laying a claim on It’s things.”

 

“Ah, but you know there are so many gods out there,” Hope said, dreamily. “We have a mutual friend in Esus.”

 

“Fucking told you,” John muttered.

 

Sherlock ignored John. “I was born during that chaos in Gaul and on these isles. I am not from them.”

 

“An angel is born when needed,” Hope corrected. “And these people, our same people, needed you to guide them.  You were born for then. You were born from this chaos and for this warzone. You and I…we aren’t all that different. We both get inside people’s heads. We both know how they think.”

 

Sherlock just flicked his head towards John, telling him to get on with it.

 

“Let’s get you into something a little less comfortable,” John said kindly, locking the cold iron manacles around Hope’s wrists before unlocking the special demon-proof handcuffs. Hope sagged under the weight, crumpling slightly as the iron affected him.

 

“Sher-lock,” Hope sounded out. “ _Sher_ -lock. Sherlock.  Means fair haired, you know.”

 

“I’m well aware,” Sherlock said dryly.

 

“Change it up? Get yourself some L’Oreal? Did you decide that you were worth it?” Hope cackled. “Or did you just change? How did the golden haired angel, bringing self-awareness to the people and guiding them out of the darkness of ignorance, end up chasing around old, washed up demons like myself? What happened to you, Saint Sherlock?”

 

“I’m not a saint,” was all Sherlock said, before turning away. “Begin, John. We don’t need to draw this out.”

 

John went to his bag, opened up a bottle of normal water, took a sip, and began. He wafted the still-burning sage through the air (which had been temporarily set aside to smoke on the ground) and started to speak.

 

“I ask for Danu, the Great Mother, to bless this place. I asked that she smile upon our efforts to rid this evil from her blessed Earth.”

 

“Fancy,” Hope said scornfully, blowing a cloud of incense out of his face. “I hope you don’t think that will make much of a difference. I’m not a particularly religious man.”

 

“I ask that Dagda, the father, protect us in this battle. I ask that he smite down this foe, and restore life to one who has had it stolen from him.”

 

“Sure, Dagda will help,” Hope laughed. “If you can get him to stop fucking around long enough to do it.”

 

John grit his teeth and ignored the demon. If the fiend was being snippy, then John was on the right track. “I ask that Brigit, called Caridwen on these isles, wisest of bards, give my voice the strength I need to perform this task, and cast this creature of darkness from this child of man.”

 

Hope just rolled his eyes.

 

John took another deep breath. “In the name of Sherlock, in service of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I ask assistance from Brigit, goddess of learning, and Cernunnos, god of vitality and revelry, to assist your brother in this task.”

 

“The pagan gods don’t take kindly to the Christians,” Hope warned. “They’re still a bit bitter about the whole persecution thing.”

 

“Brigit was adopted into the Christian religion!” Molly called out from the end of the chapel, where she was taking notes. “So she shouldn’t be too upset.”

 

“Saint Bridget,” John addressed, “worshipped first under Caridwen, thousands of years ago, then as Brighid,” John really hoped he didn’t trip that pronunciation, “in service of Danu, and now as Saint Bridget, in service of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

 

“Deities don’t really mind adoption,” Sherlock added, smiling at something the rest of them couldn’t see. “Cernunnos isn’t feeling it today, but good old girl Brighid has come out to play.”

 

John felt the small rush of power, similar to stepping under a spray of hot water, wash over his body. Sherlock was right. Brigit had joined the party.

 

Hope finally looked nervous.

 

“I am John,” John announced to the deity present. “Named from the Bible, from the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But I am John, in the service of All. And I beg your assistance in purging this evil.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock addressed to no one visible. “We _should_ have invited Esus. But John makes the rules, it’s _his_ exorcism, after all.”

 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John called. The sage burned out and he tossed it at Hope’s feet. The demon was beginning to struggle against the cold iron. It was working.

 

“The power of Brigit binds you here,” John commanded.

 

Hope slammed against the chair, rooted in place.

 

“And the power of Danu shall cleanse your darkness from her blessed Earth. You are not welcome in that host. You will be forced from it. You can leave now, if you wish.”

 

“Danu isn’t here,” Hope pointed out. “The domain of the Great Mother has been ripped to pieces. She has no power anymore.”

 

“I’ll take that as a no,” John said softly. “The power of Brigit as Caridwen, the power of the bard, rips your voice from your throat.”

 

Hope let out a gasp and a strangled sound, unable to speak.

 

“You shall not speak,” John continued, struggling to remain standing tall. “You shall not fight. And for now, you shall sleep.”

 

There was another rush of power and Hope slumped forward in the chair.

 

There was a moment of silence before Molly spoke. “Is it over?”

 

John laughed. “That was the preparation. If an exorcism was a five hundred page book, that was the three page prologue. We aren’t even close to being done.”

 

John sat heavily on the ground and started guzzling his water.

 

“What makes it so tiring?” Molly asked.   
  
“Willpower,” John responded. “For every word that leaves my mouth, Hope is trying to use demonic influence to shut me up. Every sentence is a battle of wills. The higher the priority a demon, the stronger their influence is. I’m not _usually_ this out of breath after binding the demon. He’s going to be a very tough one.”

 

“At least Brighid is here,” Sherlock pointed out cheerfully. “That will help.”

 

“She cut a lot of the bullshit,” John admitted. When Molly gave him a confused look, he elaborated. “When any of the summoned deities fail to provide any power or assistance, I have to resort to incantations to achieve the same effect. Had Brigit not bothered, I’d still be at it.”

 

Molly shifted. “Let’s hope she stays around.”

 

“Once she responds, she’s as bound as Hope is,” John assured her. “It’s why deities often declined. An inexperienced exorcist can get them trapped in a limbo for weeks or years or even centuries, until someone frees them. Brigit’s putting some faith in Sherlock, that he won’t misrepresent her.”

 

“Or no, she doesn’t care about me,” Sherlock said dismissively. “She’s putting all of her faith in you. I wouldn’t mess it up quite yet. It wouldn’t do to have the pagans angry with you.”

 

… …

 

Seventeen hours later, Sherlock took over for John.

 

Sherlock, as he explained to Molly—yet again—couldn’t perform the exorcism himself. He could, however, anchor the demon here. Keep a lid on the situation, so to speak. John needed to sleep for at least three hours before he would be able to continue.

 

He hadn’t wanted to stop, but Sherlock had forced him when he’d nearly lost to Hope.

 

Molly was nursing her third cup of coffee and watching Sherlock stand vigil over the demon, who appeared to be sleeping. Sherlock knew he was just playing possum, though. He was waiting for one of them to do something.

 

“So, what is it really, with you and John?” Molly finally asked.

 

Sherlock sighed. “Not the time, Molly.”

 

“Because you don’t act like friends,” she continued. “Or even brothers. And not like any flatmates I know. Or at least, not the ones who weren’t dating.”

 

“I’m not sleeping with a mortal,” he assured her. “If that’s what you’re even implying. I’m not sure he would survive it.”

 

Molly blushed crimson. “I’m sorry! Not what I was implying!” She frowned. “Wouldn’t that be sinful anyway?”

 

“You seem to be under the impression that I do not sin,” Sherlock said wryly. “And yes, technically premarital sex is a sin. Some louder people in this religion might say homosexuality is as well. But love who you want, fuck who you want, in my opinion. Life is short, you are transient and impermanent. Live this life the way you feel you are meant to. Otherwise, I don’t have a viewpoint. It doesn’t concern me. I’m an angel. I don’t feel that way.”

 

“But the Fallen…”

 

“The Fallen have the flesh of man,” Sherlock sighed. “They have the desires of the flesh. They must eat. They must sleep. And yes, they fuck a bit. Their offspring are a bit of a headache for those of us still in Heaven. But I still have my wings. I don’t have real flesh. You can feel me, I’m corporeal, but the only desire I feel is mental. I desire to complete my task. I desire to fix problems. I desire to serve It to the best of my abilities. That is all.”

 

“But John is your friend,” she continued.

 

“You seem stuck on the notion,” he pointed out.

 

“It’s just…”

 

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, and then regarded Hope, who was definitely listening.

 

“His soul is a young one,” he said. “Compared to a lot of souls in the universe. All the religions share the pool of available souls, did you know that?”

 

Molly shook her head.

 

“Every religion,” he continued. “In the universe, not just this tiny planet. Every soul for every life on every world.’

 

“There are other worlds out there?” she asked, eyes wide.

 

“It would be selfish to think that you are so special,” Sherlock said, rather coldly. “Divine energy is constant in the universe. It manifests differently in every world, sometimes in multiple ways. Earth is a divided place. Humans needed so much guidance, so much more than other planets, and so many gods and goddesses and other beings of power were born as needed. Souls are too. John’s soul is a newborn, compared to the creation of most beings. Yours is even younger.”

 

Molly absorbed this information. She furrowed her brow. “How does the age of John’s soul relate to your relationship with him?”

 

Sherlock grinned. “We were born on the same day. His soul and mine. We were different kinds of souls, of course, but we were both born into the same conflict. Every angel starts out as a guardian and John’s soul was my first assignment. We’ve always been drawn together, in his subsequent lives.”

 

“I see,” Molly said, sounding satisfied. She smiled. “So, you’re soul mates?”

 

“That is most certainly _not_ what I just explained to you.”

 

“It is,” she said, sounding giddy. “That’s absolutely adorable.”

 

Sherlock officially gave up. “You know what, Molly? It’s none of your business. Now, tell me. Do you think that Hope has nearly been exorcised?”

 

Molly glanced down at her notes, biting her lip. Eventually, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think that we’ve made much progress at all, actually,” she said, sounding disappointed. “We’ve still got ourselves a very long way to go.

 

“That’s most certainly true,” Sherlock said in approval. “Let’s hope that John is managing to get some sleep.”


	5. Chapter 5

It took three days.

 

John was trying not to think about the significance of the number, but Sherlock kept muttering, “And on the third day He rose again…” because he was, apparently, really gunning for that punch in the face.

 

Halfway through the second day, John began to falter. He was just so damn tired.

 

Sherlock asked him if he could just hold Hope there for a few hours without trying anything else. John answered that he should be able to, and Sherlock disappeared.

 

“I got you some coffee,” Molly said, handing John a Styrofoam cup while they waited for Sherlock to return. “How are you holding up?”

 

“Fine,” John muttered, knowing it was a lie. “It’s the longest job I’ve had so far, though.”

 

“Father Murray said there were a few novices at the church,” Molly told him, sipping her own cup of coffee with the urgency of the sleep deprived. “He’s offered you their assistance if you need to take a longer break.”

 

John shook his head. “I’m not getting anyone else involved in an exorcism this dangerous. No offense, but it’s bad enough that you’re here.”

 

Molly shrugged. “Sorry.” She didn’t look particularly repentant.

 

There was a brief and slightly awkward silence before Molly nodded at Hope. “How much longer, do you think?”

 

John shrugged. “I have no frame of reference. The longer I rest, though, the longer it will take.”

 

“You should get some more sleep,” Molly said hesitantly. “After Sherlock gets back from wherever he is.”

 

“I might manage a few more hours, but we’re getting to the point where it’s more dangerous for me to step away than to push through the exhaustion. I think I just need to power through.”

 

Molly nodded and focused back on her coffee. “I hope Sherlock gets back soon.”

 

.. …

 

Sherlock, apparently, returned with John’s second wind, because the exorcist felt a rush of power and strength as soon as the angel materialized.

 

“I’ve brought Danu,” Sherlock announced. “She’ll help you through the rest of this.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” John gasped, getting to his feet. “Thank you so much. Now. Let’s finish this.” John picked up some sage, lit it, and wafted the smoke through the air. “By the power of Danu…”

 

… …

 

It still took a long time.

 

Sherlock was pacing around the chapel, losing his bloody mind, while John tried to work through the night. Molly had gone back to her flat to get some sleep, and Sherlock pulled a few novices from the church to keep an eye on John and make sure to serve as an anchor if necessary.

 

John gave him a glare when Sherlock brought more civilians into their mess, but he didn’t stop his chanting in order to tell Sherlock off.

 

Hope was getting restless, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle.

 

Brigit and Danu were benevolently presiding, listening to John’s commands and giving the man a little nudge of strength or energy when he started to lose focus.

 

But it was still taking a very long time.

 

At this rate, John was going to run himself ragged before they even tracked Moriarty down. Sherlock would just have to be sure that his friend received a few days of uninterrupted rest before each job. He would leave him out of the rest of the investigation so that he might reserve his strength.

 

Sherlock didn’t like the thought. John hadn’t been kidding when he said that Sherlock followed him around when they worked together. Sherlock preferred John’s presence when they were working, he liked to have him there every step of the way.

 

But John was only human, a limitation that grated on Sherlock’s nerves with each reminder.

 

He would have to rest, in order to be there when he was most needed.

 

… …

 

“John thinks you tricked him into being the one who fired the Blessed Bullet,” Molly confided as she and Sherlock sat with their backs to the old stone wall. “He thinks you were being sneaky for some reason we mortals cannot comprehend.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “John was meant to be the one who fired to bullet. I do not know why, I only know that such things simply _are._ I let events unfold as I saw fit. It was not my choice to make. That decision was left to the universe.”

 

“Fate,” Molly murmured. “Do you believe in it?”

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed. “It is a comforting thought. Much more so than the chaotic alternative.”

 

“I guess,” Molly mumbled, frowning. She didn’t know why she kept asking Sherlock these sorts of questions. His answers always left her feeling she misjudged her footing on the stairs.

 

“Do you believe John can do this?” she asked, changing the subject.

 

“I believe,” Sherlock said, smiling, that he already has.”

 

… …

 

It took three days.

 

But eventually, the poor host’s head was thrown back and his mouth wrenched open as the demon within erupted from his body.

 

“You will pay, John Watson,” the black smoke hissed. “He does not like to be interfered with. He will seek His vengeance upon you.”

 

John started the incantation to bind the demon so Sherlock could get a hold of him.

 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said brusquely, straightening the collar of his coat. “I’ll take it from here.”

 

“God be with you,” John muttered as Sherlock and the dark, oppressive smoke both disappeared. “And the devil have at you, Sherlock. Christ, I do not get paid enough for this.”

 

Feeling like a marionette with all of his strings cut, John collapsed to the ground, exhaustion overtaking him.

 

He had the vague impression of Molly hurrying to his side, and then everything went dark.

 

… …

 

Irene stared at the sleeping exorcist with a frown, wondering how on earth she ended up being the one to babysit Sherlock’s little mortal friend.

 

“I’ll be back in a tick!” Molly had said before rushing out to get some groceries. Apparently the poor bastard hadn’t eaten a full meal in several days, nor had he gotten much sleep.

  
The signs of utter exhaustion were there, Irene noticed. John was thinner than when Irene had seen him last, only a few days ago. He was greyer too, older looking.

 

The strain of the exorcism had taken its toll.

 

Irene hoped, not for the first time, Sherlock knew what he was doing, getting all these mortals involved. There would be hell to pay if he didn’t.

 

No pun intended.

 

… …

 

John cracked on eye open cautiously, almost afraid to let the comforting grip of sleep release him. Life was so much easier when he was sleeping. He didn’t have to deal with Sherlock, for instance, and that was always a plus.

 

But he was bloody starving, and he really had to take a piss, so he let his eyes blink open and stare at the slightly familiar surroundings.

 

It took him several seconds to realize that he was sleeping on the sofa of 221B Baker Street.

 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Molly said from the other end of the sitting room. “I was afraid we were going to have to take you to the hospital. You’ve been asleep for nearly a day.”

 

Molly jumped out of an arm chair and hurried to the kitchen. “I’ll get you something to eat. It’s been ages since you’ve had a decent meal, you must be absolutely famished.”

 

John didn’t argue with that. He got shakily to his feet and wandered in what he hoped was the direction of the loo.

 

He, fortunately, found it. When he was finished he wandered over to the kitchen, feeling very fuzzy and disconnected with everything around him. He couldn’t even get his thoughts in order enough to articulate them.

 

After a few minutes of silence, Molly set some tea and toast in front of him to ‘hold him over while she made something bigger.’ John ate it wordlessly, feeling some life wash back into him as he did so.

 

“Is Sherlock back yet?” John asked, his voice surprisingly raspy. He cleared his throat and took a gulp of tea.

 

“Not yet,” Molly said, smiling but looking worried. “Irene has been in and out, but she’s trying to keep up appearances with the rest of the demons, so she’s off doing…bad things at the moment. Greg dropped in to make sure you were alright, but it’s mostly been you and me. Well, just me, I guess, because you were sleeping. But you’re awake now, so…” she trailed off.

 

John cleared his throat. “Right. Um, thank you. For the um…” he gestured to the food in front of him and the flat in general.

 

Molly smiled, much more genuine than her last trembling one. “It’s absolutely no problem, John. You did some really great work. I’m happy to assist however I can. And if that means cooking a fry up, then I’ll cook you the best fry up I’m able to manage.”

 

“Really, Molly,” John said sincerely. “Thank you.” He vaguely wondered where Sherlock found such a sweet person and fervently hoped that he hadn’t done anything to corrupt her yet.

 

He would be sure to give Sherlock a strict talking to whenever he got back from…wherever he went.

 

“So I suppose the interrogation is taking some time, then,” John observed, swirling the dregs of his tea around in his mug. “I guess he thinks that this Hope fellow might actually know something.” John suddenly remembered the host of the demon. “Oh…the poor bloke Hope possessed…is he…?”

 

Molly pressed her lips together. “He didn’t make it,” Molly said sadly. “Sherlock had someone put a few guardians on standby, though, so they made extra sure that the poor man’s soul found its way to Heaven. Or…wherever he went based on his religion. I’m not positive, but I was assured that everything was taken care of.”

 

“That’s good, then…” John said uncertainly. “So…did you learn anything during the exorcism?”

 

Molly nodded and started babbling excitedly, occasionally asking questions, which John attempted to answer to the best of his ability. She continued to do so even after she served him his food, and he had to try to navigate around the mouthfuls in order to keep responding to her endless litany of questions.

 

After he finished and did the washing up, he immediately felt the need to go back to sleep. Molly tried to convince him to stay at 221B, but John longed for the familiar walls of his own flat. He made his escape and caught a cab, looking forward to getting more rest.

 

He nearly made it there when Sherlock materialized next to him, scaring the absolute shit out of the cabbie and nearly causing an enormous traffic accident.

 

“You bloody angels,” the cabbie grumbled. “Give some of us normal folk a break, will ya? We ain’t immortal.”

 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said in the most insincere attempt at apology ever uttered. “John, why aren’t you at the flat?”

 

“I’m heading to the flat,” John pointed out.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No. Not _your_ flat. _The_ flat. The flat where everyone is supposed to gather.”

 

John sighed. “Sherlock, I need to get some decent rest and I would like to do so in familiar surroundings. I need a few days to do nothing but eat and sleep before I can even contemplate another exorcism.”

 

“You’re an exorcist?” the cabbie interrupted, looking impressed. “Fine job you lot are doing. I can’t thank you enough for your service.”

 

John flushed, occasionally forgetting the almost celebrity-like status some people gave exorcists. “You don’t need to thank me,” he protested. “I’m just trying to help, however I can.”

 

“He’s being modest,” Sherlock interrupted. “He just dealt with a Priority One possession.”

 

John nudged Sherlock hard and glared at him.

 

“What?” Sherlock mouthed, unable to comprehend such human concepts as modesty and humility.

 

“That’s amazing,” said the cabbie, looking appropriately impressed. “You must be beat.”   
  
“That’s why I’m heading home,” John said, putting some slight emphasis on it as he glared at Sherlock. “I need to get some sleep before I can be at Heaven’s beck and call again.”

 

“You and your mortal limitations,” Sherlock scoffed. He lapsed into silence, staring out the cab window.

 

“Well?” John prompted.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, not moving,

 

“I can’t help you right now. Aren’t you going to leave?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said shortly. “I’ve decided to follow you home.”

 

“You know, if you were human, I could call the police about you.”

 

“It’s a good thing I’m not human then. Have you fixed your television yet? It’s dreadfully dull in your flat when you’re sleeping.”

 

… …

 

**Meanwhile, when Sherlock isn’t around…**

 

“Sherlock stopped by earlier,” Molly informed Irene. “He went off to talk to John, though.”

 

Irene made a small noise of acknowledgment and draped herself on the sofa. She was halfheartedly scanning demonic energies, but without Sherlock around barking orders, she found herself without much to do.

 

“Why come back, if you’re bored?” Molly asked, evidently not understanding that Irene was ignoring her.

 

Irene fixed her with a seductive look. “So I can see you again, gorgeous.”

 

“Heterosexual,” Molly apologized, flushing nonetheless. “You don’t need to bother with that.”

 

Irene closed her eyes. “Because Sherlock is a bastard and bound me to this bloody residence. I can’t leave it for too long, not without his explicit permission. I’ve eaten, so now I’ve got to come back here.”

 

“You’ve eaten?” Molly’s flush deepened as she understood. “Right. Um. I hope he—or, you know, she—is alright then.”

 

“Perfectly fine,” Irene said carelessly. “She won’t live as long as she would otherwise, but she had a perfectly lovely afternoon and will likely have a perfectly lovely life.”

 

Molly looked like she wanted to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of someone wrestling with the lock on the front door. A few moments later, Greg’s cursing floated up the stairwell.

 

“Bloody lock got stuck again,” Greg grumbled, pointedly ignoring Irene. “But Sherlock texted me, told me to do some research on snakes in religious symbolism.” He gave Molly a tired look. “I thought that was _your_ job.”

 

“I’ve slept twelve hours in four days,” she said apologetically. “I was there for most of the exorcism. I’m not up to my usual standards of productivity. Tea?” she asked, as though it might earn her forgiveness.

 

Greg nodded and sat at the cluttered desk, digging through the stacks of books. Molly meandered into the kitchen to prepare that wretched drink that mortals seemed to enjoy so much.

 

Irene decided to entertain herself by watching Greg with a predatory expression. Greg was steadfastly ignoring her and staring at the books in front of him.

 

“You don’t have to be so shy,” she purred, stretching out seductively.

 

Greg started humming something loudly as he worked.

 

Molly walked back into the sitting room, carrying mugs of tea while perching a plate of biscuits on her arm. “Is that Blue Oyster Cult?” she asked, listening to the humming.

 

“Yes,” Greg said, looking up at Molly with a smile as he accepted his tea and snatched a biscuit.

 

Irene scowled. “So you’ll talk to her and not me?”

 

Greg hummed ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ even louder as he flipped through the pages.

 

“Sherlock’s given Greg strict instructions _not_ to talk to you,” Molly explained, digging through Greg’s pile of books until she found the volume she was looking for. “Apparently he doesn’t trust you.”

 

“Well…he really shouldn’t,” Irene admitted, a bit reluctantly. “I’m more annoyed that John didn’t seem interested.”

 

“That might be because John’s a bit gay,” Greg said without thinking. He then realized he spoke. “I mean--” he went back to humming.

 

“Is he?” Molly wondered out loud.

 

Irene frowned. “Not totally. Sexuality is weird, though.”

 

“You would know, I suppose,” Molly muttered. “Being a sex demon and all.”

 

“The term is succubus,” Irene reminded her.

 

“What would you have done?” Molly asked, looking up from her book. “If John _was_ interested, that is.”

 

Irene shrugged. “Nothing at the moment, but I would definitely have saved him for later.”

 

Molly made a noise of agreement.

 

Greg made a face and hummed.  

 

… …

 

“Sit there and don’t touch anything,” John scolded the second they entered the flat. “I do not need you blowing anything up again.”

 

“You should just stay at Baker Street,” Sherlock said for the third time. “There’s an extra bedroom. Irene sometimes stays in the downstairs one, but there’s one upstairs separated from the rest of the flat. You could still get your peace and quiet.”

 

“I’m really not too sold on the idea of moving in with a succubus, Sherlock,” John repeated for the third time. “I honestly don’t think that I would survive it. Although her pull was somewhat disappointing to be honest. I mean, she’s attractive but completely resistible.”

 

“Give it time,” Sherlock said ominously.

 

“I’d rather not,” John responded sincerely. “Seriously, sit on the sofa and don’t move. The telly works, so entertain yourself that way if you need to.”

 

Sherlock grouched but did as John suggested.

 

John made sure Sherlock was settled before he took a shower and got ready for an extended sleep. He felt a little bit like he had been hit by a truck and was desperate to try and attempt to feel normal again.

 

He had just fallen asleep when he felt himself being watched.

 

He opened his eyes against and yelped when he saw Sherlock staring at him.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock! You can’t keep doing that!”

 

“I like watching you sleep,” Sherlock said, as though that excused his behavior and _didn’t seem stalker-ish at all._ “All your lines smooth out when you sleep.”

 

“Go fuck yourself Sherlock,” John said flatly, turning over so he was facing the other way. “And get out of my flat.”

 

Sherlock made a whining noise similar to that of a toddler being told ‘no’ and stalked out of the bedroom.

 

John didn’t know if Sherlock stuck around the flat at all, but eventually the tension in his shoulders eased and he fell back into a (mostly) peaceful sleep.

 

… …

 

“You’re back,” Irene said, sounding unsurprised.

 

Sherlock scowled at her and took stock of the sitting room. Molly and Greg were researching, as they should be (although Molly was starting to nod off over her book) and Irene was just lazing about, doing nothing productive at all.

 

“John kicked me out,” Sherlock confessed bitterly. He thought that John’s reaction had been a bit unfair. “Evidently it is creepy and poorly mannered to watch someone sleep.”

 

Irene busted out laughing (a sound that was always disturbing from a demon) and even Molly offered a tired smile.

 

“I can’t really blame him,” Greg said, not looking up from his book. “Hey, is this the son of a bitch we’re looking for?” he asked, holding up the book.

 

The scene was a simple one, depicting a woman, an apple, and a serpent in a rather familiar situation. It was the fall of Eden.  

 

“Yep,” Sherlock said, popping the ‘p.’ “Not the nicest fellow.”

 

“The snake is often referred to as Lucifer, though,” Greg pointed out. “Is that an isolated incident, or is this Moriarty bastard often switched around with him?”

 

“Moriarty is clever,” Irene answered from the sofa. “He doesn’t take the blame if he doesn’t have to. He always tries to foist it off on someone else. You’ll find him under a hundred different names in stories all over the world.”

 

Greg frowned. “I thought he was a Christian demon.”

 

Irene rolled her eyes. “Does he seem like the sort of entity to pay attention to rules like that? Also, you talked to me again.”

 

“Damn it!”

 

“Children, please,” Sherlock sighed. “Let’s get back on track.”

 

“I’m older than you,” Irene pointed out.

 

“Fine, mortals and ageless demon woman, please, let’s get back on track.”

 

“We just don’t even know where to look for him,” Molly said, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve been searching for the signs you’ve told me to look out for, but I pick him up in too many things. I have to be doing it wrong, there’s no way…” she caught the look Sherlock was giving her. “But it can’t possibly be him every time, can it?”

 

“You’re more likely to be correct assuming that he did something than assuming he didn’t,” Sherlock said, taking the seat across from Molly. “He’s everywhere. Or, he was. I pulled him out of this world for as long as I could, but…”

 

“But now he’s loose again,” Irene sighed. She got up from the sofa. “And I found another Priority One. I think that it will keep for a while, though. They’re not killing anyone. Not yet, anyway. We can let that little exorcist of yours get some sleep before we start all over.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story won't be updating for the next 2-3 weeks while I start my freshman year of college. I'm going to be insanely busy and won't be able to write. I shouldn't be longer then two weeks, and I'll post a notice on my tumblr once I figure out when I can come back.

The sleep was blissful. Now that the more pressing needs had been met, John’s body was ready to power down until it caught up on nearly a week of over exhaustion. He knew that he had pushed too hard. He used to be a doctor, after all, and he recognized where the human body set its limits. But now there was nothing to worry about. He could simply sleep and rest, build his strength back up until he was needed once more.

 

He slept peacefully, free of worry. He didn’t know the chaos of the hunt had already begun again.

 

… …

 

“Can you pinpoint the location of the demon?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer to the question. He really wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask.

 

“Of course,” Irene responded. “Would you like me to write down the directions?”

 

“Give them to Lestrade,” Sherlock said dismissively.

 

“Are we hunting it down now?” Lestrade asked, shutting his book and getting to his feet.

 

“We might as well prepare,” Sherlock huffed. “But John won’t be able to do anything with it for another day _at least_. God, you pathetic little mortals and your _needs_.”

 

“Thanks,” Lestrade sighed, “for that. I’ll do some basic reconnaissance. Don’t lose your trace on the demon.”

 

“What do you think I’m doing?” Irene hissed, rubbing her temples.

 

“Do you know what sort of demon it is?” Molly asked. She was already digging through her piles of books, trying to determine what would be the most helpful.

 

“Not yet,” Irene muttered. She opened her eyes, fumbled around for a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbled an address down for Lestrade. “Somewhere around here. It’s associated with crime. I’m not sure what kind yet.”

 

“I can help with that,” Sherlock assured Lestrade. “I’ll ask Mycroft if he’s seen anything unusual in that area.”

 

Sherlock released his wings and left.

 

… …

 

Mycroft could see everything and nothing.

 

That was his curse.

 

He had decided to play it safe during that very first war. He stood against the archangels when it became clear that they were keeping things from their lower kin. But he did so quietly. A sympathizer in the shadows, trying to keep his reputation clean and his name free of any implication with the rebellion.

 

When the rebels lost, when they were stripped of the wings and they Fell, Mycroft tried to resume his place in Heaven like nothing had happened. He tried to pretend that he hadn’t been playing for both sides all along. He believed he had gotten away with it, that his older brothers had not noticed his duplicity.

 

How very foolish he was.

 

Mycroft, and all others like him, who tried to crawl back to Grace, were bound to Earth and blinded as punishment. He had kept his wings, but they were clipped, so to speak. He was still powerful, still strong, but he would never be allowed back into Heaven again.

 

And even if, someday, he was, he would never gaze upon its beauty.

 

He wondered what was crueler: the clean break given to the Fallen, or the tantalizing promise of forgiveness daily ripped away for the Watchers. It might be a draw.

 

Mycroft was blind.

 

But still he Watched.

 

He watched over everything he could, keeping order, never putting a toe out of line, doing his duty and keeping his head down.

 

All for the distant, unobtainable hope of forgiveness.

 

No, he reflected, his punishment was definitely worse.

 

There were some things he didn’t mind, he had to admit. His opinion was still taken seriously by the archangels. If nothing else good had come from that bloody war, he had at least proved to his older brothers that he was very intelligent and resourceful.

 

So when, several hundred years ago, his assigned civilization was in need of more guidance, the archangels took his request for a new guardian seriously. Not long after, It gave birth to beautiful creature with hair like spun gold and eyes like silver.

 

Mycroft named his younger brother Sherlock, and was assigned to care for him.

 

Sherlock was kind hearted, gentle. Mycroft made sure that he used his intelligence and his power to his advantage, to notice every detail and draw the proper conclusions. Sherlock, in turn, helped his people with that awareness. It was still a struggle, as their religion slowly seeped into a land where it was not necessarily wanted, but Sherlock and Mycroft helped them become a great civilization.

 

But somewhere along the line, Sherlock changed.

 

His wings were tainted until they matched his eyes, his hair turned black. His smile became empty and forced. He cut himself off from the emotions angels could feel when they were on Earth, and kept himself in the same state of unfeeling Grace for hundreds of years.

 

Of course, Mycroft had not literally _seen_ this. He had felt it. And he didn’t know what had happened.

  
That terrified him, the not knowing. Mycroft saw everything and nothing, the fact that something happened outside of his knowledge terrified him.

 

But he managed.

 

He stayed there with Sherlock during the darkest of times, receiving neither thanks from Sherlock nor praise from the archangels.

 

But that was alright.

 

Mycroft did it out of love.

 

Love?

 

Did he really just say love?

 

Good Lord, Mycroft had been on Earth for too long. He’d never get his Grace back if that human notion of _love_ kept getting in the way.

 

… …

 

Sherlock hated asking Mycroft for favors, but he did it anyway.

 

“Hello, brother dear,” Sherlock greeted, materializing in Mycroft’s office. “I need to ask you something.”

 

“You’re looking for that Priority One in the smuggling ring,” Mycroft said, knowing already. He lifted his head, his blank, colorless eyes. “That Lestrade fellow of yours won’t know where to start on his own. Mortal law enforcement can’t even track down the human operatives. You’ll need divine intervention to find Shan.”

 

“Well, Lestrade is good at what he does,” Sherlock argued, feeling absurdly possessive of his mortal. “He manages fine.”

 

“He found the cabbie on accident,” Mycroft pointed out. “You can hardly expect him to unravel an entire criminal organization alone. You’ll need to help him.”

 

“I intended to,” Sherlock sniffed. “Really, Mycroft. You act like I can’t do anything for myself.”

 

“You sure seem to behave like you can’t, little brother,” Mycroft said with an empty smile. “You can identify a demon on sight, yet you drag in a timid demonologist to work hours in order to accomplish what you can do in a fraction of a second. You draft a succubus to focus on energies you can trace in your sleep. You enlist a hunter who takes three times as long to do the same job as you. The only person on your team that makes any sense if that exorcist of yours, and he’s the one that started this problem in the first place.”

 

“What problem? What are you talking about, Mycroft?”

 

“You, brother, will Fall unless you keep those emotions in check. Affection, friendship, _loneliness_ , God forbid, will drag you down. Take it from someone who knows.”

 

“I’m not growing attached, Mycroft,” Sherlock protested, furious. “I simply find it more efficient to work in a team.”

 

Mycroft stared blankly at Sherlock for a long time before letting out a long breath of air. “You’re looking for the Black Lotus gang. Their leader has been possessed by Shan, a demon of Chinese origins that evidently didn’t want to move too far away from its roots.  She’s a nasty one, be careful. You’ll be able to connect her to an international smuggling ring and two murders that occurred over the last few days. Be careful, Sherlock. She has a frightening ability to find someone’s weakness and exploit it.”

 

“I’ll be alright, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I’m an archangel, remember? I don’t have a weakness.”

 

… …

 

Greg was trying to get a feel for the area where the address was located. He found himself staring up at a Chinese souvenir shop, wondering how his life managed to get to this point.

 

A guardian angel passed him on the street, an older black man who stopped to stand next to him. His wings weren’t out, but he was emitting the same warm, if slightly disconcerting, energy unique to angels.

 

“Hello,” Greg greeted politely, learning from experience that it was always a good idea to start by being respectful to the angels. You could be a dick to them later, once they’ve pretty much made the decision not to smite you, but before then it was safer to err on the side of courteous.

 

“Hello,” the angel said, looking up at the shop. “About time someone decided to take care of Shan,” he said, frowning at the merchandise in the windows.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“You’re working with Sherlock, right?” he asked, meeting Greg’s eyes for the first time. “The Guardians have been on high alert for his little team. The demons went batshit insane when they realized that the most powerful were being taken down quickly. And the Protectors set up a perimeter around the city. No more demons are getting in or out.”

 

“I—oh,” Greg stuttered. “I didn’t realize. That so many angels were, um, involved in this.”

 

The angel raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding me, right? This is Moriarty we’re talking about. There’s not an angel in Heaven that isn’t desperate to get him back under lock and key. I just hope that Michael knew what he was doing, sending Sherlock.”

 

Greg was still a little overwhelmed by the conversation, but he kept up the best that he could. “Why? Don’t you think he can do it?”

 

The angel looked uncomfortable. “Sherlock’s a brilliant angel. He’s an archangel, after all, and he wasn’t born one. He earned his standing. His issues with Moriarty run deep, though and he’s been…off lately.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

The angel waved it off. “It’s probably just his rebellious teenage phase. If he were human, he’d be dying his hair black, getting piercings, sneaking off to light up with unsuitable friends. He’s only a few centuries old, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

 

Greg snorted, all too easily capable of imagining Sherlock as a surly, combative teenager. “So this Shan…that’s the Priority One possession?”

 

“Yep,” the angel said. “We sent a request in to the Archangels almost a week ago, when two mortals were killed because of her. I guess they’ve been too busy with Moriarty to deal with her, but I’m glad Sherlock’s sent you along to help deal with it.”

 

“Yeah, Sherlock wants to interrogate the possessions,” Greg explained. “I’m just meant to bring them it, but it will be John that _really_ handles it.”

 

The angel nodded. “John Watson. Good man, good exorcist. I’ve met him before, in one of his past lives. Sherlock always manages to find him, no matter the incarnation. And you don’t work in London long without having to deal with Sherlock at some point, so it was sort of inevitable that we cross in at least _one_ life.”

 

Greg didn’t really know what to make of that.

 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the angel said after a second. “Thanks again for what you do for this city. We are extremely grateful for your help.”

 

“Er, it’s no problem,” Greg said, flushing slightly. It was always nice to be appreciated.

 

“Oh,” the angel said, right after he released his snowy white wings. “I don’t know if it will help at all, but you might want to check out the circus tomorrow night. I’ve heard Shan hangs around.”

 

… …

 

Irene refused to leave the flat.

 

There was a bad stirring in the demon community. Word of Hope’s exorcism had gotten around, and somehow Irene’s fellow hell spawn figured out that Shan was next.

 

And the Goddamn angels set a bloody perimeter around London. That was as subtle as a gunshot. Irene didn’t know what they were thinking. _Of course_ the demons would be on edge. They always are when they’re cornered.

 

She knew that they should have been more subtle about this. She _told_ Sherlock. Moriarty wasn’t someone you could flush out. He _always_ knew when you were looking for him.

 

And he always made sure to find you first.

 

… …

 

**Someone is doing your job for you. –Lestrade**

**What do you mean? SH**

**I mean that I made a new angel friend. –Lestrade**

**He told me where to find Shan. –Lestrade**

**He was, over all, much more agreeable than you ever are. –Lestrade**

**I don’t aim to be agreeable. SH**

**I aim to get my job done. SH**

**Which I have been doing. SH**

**I can connect Shan to a gang, a smuggling ring, and two unsolved murders. SH**

**So there. SH**

**I know exactly where to find her. –Lestrade.**

**So there. –Lestrade**

… …

 

“How do you feel about the circus?” Sherlock asked John an hour after he woke up, appearing in his flat in his usual ray of heavenly light.  

 

“Go fuck yourself, Sherlock, Greg already called me.” John turned right around with every intention of going back to sleep.

 

“Okay fine, I won’t make you hunt the demon,” Sherlock sighed.

 

John gave him a weird look. “I will never understand your obsession with trying to make me hunt.”

 

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable. “So…have you been preparing for the exorcism?”

 

“Not yet,” John sighed, turning to go to his kitchen instead. He was hungry again. “I don’t know as much about Eastern religions. I know an expert in East Asian studies at the museum, though. I’m going to give her a call after I eat and then Molly and I are going to talk to her as soon as she gets the time. I know Greg is going to the circus tomorrow, so I’m preparing to do the exorcism at some point the day after.” John was digging through his fridge, trying to find something that probably wouldn’t kill him.

 

“Alright,” Sherlock sighed. “I guess you don’t need me, then.”

 

“Are you pouting?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re pouting.”

 

“I’m really not.”

 

“Can angels even pout?”

 

“I’m not pouting, John!”

 

“Right.”

 

… …

 

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a headache.   


He tried not to watch Sherlock’s private interactions. He wanted to give his younger brother some sort of illusion of privacy when he was on Earth. Why? He didn’t know. It was plainly a bad idea. Giving his brother the idea that he can have a personal life just feeds into the corrupting notion that Sherlock has humanity.

 

Which he doesn’t.

 

Or, well, he shouldn’t.

 

Not if he wanted to stay immortal.

 

Not unless he wanted to Fall.

 

Sherlock was heading down a dangerous path. He was running out of time to turn around, he was running out of time for mistakes and regrets.

 

It was just a simple interaction.

 

Just bickering between friends.

 

But Mycroft could see it for what it really was, or, at least, what it was becoming.

 

Sherlock was falling in love with John Watson.

 

And there was no doubt in Mycroft’s mind that Sherlock would be destroyed by it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Updates should continue as scheduled.

“Are you sure about going to this circus?” Sherlock asked Greg, making the hunter flinch back at the sudden proximity.

 

“Oi, Sherlock, I’m just trying to do my job here,” Greg said, stepping aside and moving about the flat, trying to find his bag of supplies. “The job you gave me, I might add. And yeah, the circus is a bit public, but it’s an enclosed space and there won’t be too much opportunity for Shan to try and pull something. I’ll be okay if I watch my back and be careful.”

 

“Maybe you should take John with you.”

 

“Okay, Sherlock,” Greg said, turning around to look the bloody angel in the eye. “I think that you and John need to talk about your fetish with him hunting. It’s getting a little ridiculous and it’s starting to make everyone else uncomfortable.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m just concerned for your welfare. Shan is a dangerous demon.”

 

“First of all, bullshit that you’re concerned with my welfare. Second of all, I know she’s a dangerous demon. She’s a Priority One possession, idiot. She won’t be anything _but_ dangerous. Third of all, you hired me to do a job, and I will bloody well do it. So get out of my way and give me back my bag, I know that you hid it.”

 

Sherlock scowled and Greg’s bag materialized. “Fine. Do it your way. Don’t come crying to me when you find yourself in over your head.”

 

… …

 

“So how well do you know Soo Lin?” Greg asked John on their way to the museum. Molly had decided to head to the library and do some research instead, and Greg jumped up to take her place. He could use a little bit more practical knowledge on the demon he would soon be hunting.

 

John shrugged. “I’ve worked with her a few times. We don’t exactly go out drinking on our days off. She’s a very private person, doesn’t talk about anything but the job, but she’s trustworthy enough.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Greg allowed. “But what does an antiquities curator know about demonic possession?’

 

John offered a rueful grin. “Honestly, I’ve never wanted to ask.”

 

… …

 

Soo Lin served them tea in her office and sat silently while they explained the particular job.

 

“Shan,” she said softly. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before she came back.” She didn’t elaborate, but instead went to a bookshelf and pulled out a dusty volume with Chinese characters on the spine.

 

John exchanged a glance with Greg but neither of them interrupted.

 

“China is a place of many different legends and histories,” she said, holding the book like it was something very precious. “Some of them contradict each other, but there is one that stands strong. They say it is as old as China itself, that this tale was told by the very first men who settled on the rivers.” Soo Lin opened the book. “This is the story of Shan.”

 

Greg opened his mouth to say something, but John nudged him and frowned. It was always best to let Soo Lin speak at her own pace.

 

“They say many things about Shan,” she said quietly. “But one thing is for certain, she is a parasite. She corrupts people, brainwashes them, turns them into her minions and soldiers. Then she drains the world around her. She steals and takes and destroys, leeching whatever resources she can for herself, growing stronger and stronger and stronger as she does so.” Soo Lin turned a page in her book. “Years ago, my brother and I were orphaned. We had no livelihood and the streets were...well, it wouldn’t have been noticed if two children simply disappeared. Unwilling to risk that life, we turned to someone we thought might help us.”

 

“Shan,” Greg prompted, ignoring John’s glare.

 

Soo Lin looked very small, heavy with shame a regret. “She was leading a smuggling ring. She was moving thousands and thousands of pounds worth of drugs into Hong Kong. My brother and I…we smuggled for her. In return, we were given food, clothes, wealth and prosperity. But…Shan corrupts. It wasn’t long before my brother stopped acting like himself. He grew distant, cold, when he was once so happy and free spirited. He wouldn’t speak with me anymore, he only had eyes for Shan. And…I knew what Shan was, and I didn’t want to lose myself the way my brother had.”

 

She shut the book. “I got away, but I couldn’t do so until after the Reveal. Shan was no longer a crime boss to outsiders, but the demon that her soldiers knew her to be. Happily, my guardian angel revealed himself to me as well, and he helped me get away. I could not save my brother, but I was able to leave Shan behind me.”

 

She gave the book a long look, glanced at John, and slowly put the book away. Greg could read hesitation in her every move, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what might be causing it.

 

She looked up and met Greg’s eyes for the first time. “I do not know you, Mr. Lestrade, but I know that you are a good hunter. Shan is not a demon to be taken lightly. She is not like the others. She does not lie or manipulate or play with your mind. She tells you every dark truth, voices your every fear until it corrupts you. Then, she either decides to keep you, or kill you. And Mr. Lestrade, if she does corrupt you, pray, pray to whatever God you fear most, that she chooses to kill you.”

 

… …

 

“Well that was terrifying,” Greg said bluntly the second they left the museum.

 

“Yeah, that was…that was really genuinely scary,” John agreed. He nodded and quickly said, “Well good luck with the hunt, I have exorcist things to do.”

 

“Are you trying to escape?”

 

“Hey, the hunting is your job, mate. Have fun.”

 

… …

 

Abandoned by John, Greg sat down at a small café and started planning the hunt. He took out a small pocket notebook and started jotting a few things down, beginning with some notes about the meeting with Soo Lin and their shared history.

 

That was… quite the coincidence. But, once upon a time, Greg had been a police officer and was by nature extremely wary of coincidences. They tended to come back and bite you in the arse if you ignored them for too long.

 

He set it aside for now, but didn’t put it out of his mind. If nothing else, he could always go back to Soo Lin and mine her for a bit more information.

 

Next he outlined several plans of attack. He had it on fairly reliable information that Shan would be at the circus tomorrow night, so that was when he planned to confront her.

 

Before then, he had to lay a trap. He doubted that rushing at her guns blazing would be all that effective.

 

According to the information that Sherlock got from one of his fellow angels (Mycroft, Greg thought his name was. Sherlock complained about him nearly constantly) Shan was leading the Black Lotus Gang. A few phone calls to his old friend Sally Donovan and Greg knew way more about Chinese smuggling rings than any person should have the right to.

 

But he broke it down like this:

 

Shan possessed the leader of the smuggling ring.

 

Soo Lin’s brother was in the smuggling ring. (Helpful? Maybe.)

 

The smuggling ring masqueraded as a circus.

 

The circus would be performing tomorrow night only before returning to China.

 

Shan would be there at the performance.

 

And basically all that told Greg was that he had a very big job to do and a very limited amount of time to do it.

 

… …

 

Molly was a bit hopeless when she was surrounded by books. She tended to get distracted very quickly and never actually got as much done as she intended.

 

It wasn’t her fault! All the books were just sitting there, holding their secrets, looking at her with their pleading eyes.

 

Never mind that books didn’t actually have eyes, she still felt them looking.

 

Every time she tried to focus on her task, another idea popped into her head, demanding that another book be searched for.

 

She was nearly lost in the stacks when she was interrupted by an unknown voice with a pleasant Irish lilt. “Can I help you at all?”

 

Molly looked at the man and flushed, a little bit embarrassed to be caught wandering aimlessly when she was supposed to be getting that research done for Sherlock.

 

“Oh, no, I’m alright,” she said. The stranger was still there, smiling at her politely, so she felt compelled to ask, “Do you work here?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, laughing slightly. He really did have a nice laugh, Molly thought. “Sorry, yes. I’m a librarian here.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jim.”

 

Molly beamed and shook Jim’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Molly.”

 

… …

 

“I’d been doing some research before we came here,” John said, barging into Soo Lin’s office. He had doubled back to the museum right after parting from Greg. “And I know what that book is.”

 

Soo Lin abruptly looked guilty, glancing at the book sitting inconspicuously on the shelf. “I wasn’t sure…” she said, shifting in her seat. “I didn’t want to take the risk.”

 

“What risk, Soo Lin?” John asked, sitting in front of her and putting on his ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor’ voice.

 

“Shan knows that I have the book,” Soo Lin blurted out after a long moment of silence. “Or at least, if we capture her, she’ll know that I helped.”

 

“And you fear her.”   
  
“Anyone who values their life would!” she snapped, twisting her hands in her lap. “I do not doubt that Mr. Lestrade is a great hunter. But if he fails, Shan would go after to me. And I am not ready to die, John.”

 

John reached across her desk, not taking her hand, simply offering, letting her know that he was there, that he understood. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he began sincerely. “But that’s a very old copy of an even older book, and it contains a spell that can trap Shan long enough for a hunter to act.”

 

Soo Lin hesitated, then nodded. “I—well, my brother really, became trusted soldiers of Shan. We were allowed into the more guarded parts of the operation. She had the book in her possession. I didn’t know what it was when I stole it, just that she kept it safely guarded. Before I left, I just thought…it would be better that I have it than Shan. I almost did not make it out with my life, but I had a good guardian angel. He helped me, kept me safe. I was able to bring it with me to England, and I have been hiding it in plain sight ever since.” Soo Lin offered a small smile. “Part of me dreamed that one day I would be able to use it against Shan, but I have never had enough courage for such an act.”

 

John smiled. “It’s alright. It’s just--” John straightened up. “Soo Lin, you can trust us. We are going to take down Shan. We’re going to give her to the archangels and make sure that she pays for everything she has done. I understand if you don’t want to entrust the book to us, but if you could just copy down the spell--”

 

“It’s in Chinese,” she pointed out. “A translation would not be nearly as effective.”

 

John grimaced, knowing it to be true. How many exorcisms had he conducted in the original Latin and Hebrew, after all?

 

There was a tense moment before Soo Lin finally nodded. “I will help,” she said, sounding surprisingly confident for her wavering moments before. “I will read the spell. I will help you capture Shan.”

 

“Alright,” John said, nodding. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

… …

 

For Greg, the next day passed in a bit of a blur. It was hour after hour of preparation and worrying, of fending off Sherlock and going over facts with John (who seemed convinced that Soo Lin had something that would help, although he wasn’t sharing details), of pointedly ignoring Irene and nodding politely while Molly blathered on about some handsome librarian that she met while she was researching.

 

He felt a small pang at that, not that he would admit it to anyone. After all, he was quite a bit older than Molly and it was his own damn fault for never asking her to get coffee or anything.

 

Oh well, he reflected. Just another regret to add to the list. He’d worry about it when he wasn’t about to risk his life taking down an ancient demon with more power than anything he had ever faced before.

 

Including Hope. Which really did not make him feel great about his plan.

 

Admittedly, his plan was slightly ridiculous. And it probably wasn’t going to work. But it was the best he had and they were just going to have to give it a shot.

 

He enlisted John’s help in getting everything ready and that if absolutely no one screwed up, it might just work.

 

  
Probably not, but Greg took comfort in knowing that Heaven was on his side, just in case he died horribly.

 

… …

 

Sherlock took a step back once the actual hunt began.

 

He didn’t know why he had pushed so hard at Greg, had tried to throw John into the line of fire.

 

Well, he did know, but he didn’t like the reason.

 

In truth, Sherlock had wanted to shelter John. He had wanted to wrap him up in a big fluffy blanket and tuck him away somewhere he would be safe. He wanted to pull John away from this entire mess and ensure that he lived a long and happy life, safe from demons where he would live and smile every day and want to be around Sherlock and spend time with him and… this was just ridiculous. Sherlock had to stop.

 

So Sherlock decided to do the exact opposite, to convince himself that these thoughts were merely thoughts, mild worries for a friend he had grown somewhat attached to as he spent too much time on Earth.

 

He tried to throw John into the fray. He gave made sure that Molly gave John the blessed bullet, made sure that John would have to put himself in danger to help capture Hope.

 

Then, when Greg was preparing to hunt again, Sherlock could only offer up John’s services. If Sherlock could put John in danger and stand back and watch events unfold without remorse…well, that meant he wasn’t as affected by John as he thought he was.

 

Right?

 

Because these couldn’t be feelings.

  
That was ridiculous. Angels didn’t have feelings. Not like humans did.

 

And if they started to…if angels gave in to desire and passion and human vice…

 

They lost their Grace.

 

And from there, they Fall.

 

Sherlock was not ready for a Fall.

 

He wouldn’t do it. Not for anyone.

 

Not even for John.

 

… …

 

Greg walked into the circus, wondering if he was in the right place.

 

Then the show started and it was creepy as fuck, so he figured that he probably was.

 

A drumbeat. A grand entrance, and then, wordless, Shan stood before him.

 

It was definitely Shan. There was that same feeling. That coldness, that emptiness. The absence of life, of light, of anything resembling love.

 

She was in position. Greg pulled out his phone and sent a quick message, praying to whatever deity that was listening that this stupid plan worked.

 

… …

 

John got the message.

 

“Alright,” John said, getting Father Dimmock’s attention. The young priest had jumped on the chance to help when John had made tentative inquiries for assistance. “Begin.”

 

In unison, the two dozen men and women they had gathered for the hunt uncapped their bottles of holy water, turn them over so the water spilled on the ground, and began to pray.

 

Soo Lin stood beside John, looking terrified to the very core of her being.

 

He had given her one last chance to bow out before the show began, but she had pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  
“No,” she said. “This is the price I pay. It is my fault that my brother fell to Shan’s power, and I abandoned him with her. This is the only way I can forgive myself for those dark years of my life.”

 

John had felt that such redemption wasn’t really necessary, but in truth they couldn’t actually do this without her, so he didn’t really try to convince her to leave.

 

She opened her book, flipped to the right page, and began to read.

 

… …

 

Greg knew that something, at least, was happening once Shan started to laugh.

 

“Foolish humans,” she said gleefully. “As if Christian ground could ever actually stop me. I am still free to leave this place.”

 

Which meant that the consecration started. Two dozen people, circling the building, creating a ring of holy ground as the circus had gone on.

 

“Well, yeah,” Greg pointed out, speaking up over the confusion. “But you are anchored here now. You can’t leave this realm, or even your host, really, until you leave the consecrated ground.”

 

“So you are behind this? It was silly of you to reveal yourself, hunter.” Shan said, shedding some of her costume. “Do you really think that you can stop me from walking out of this building and into freedom?”

 

“Ah, well, I’ve got someone else on that. I think. At least, I’ve been promised that it would be worked out.”

 

As he spoke, Shan’s movements grew sluggish. Her eyes opened wide once she realized that something was happening. “That girl! I never should have let her live! She will suffer greatly for this. Jiju! Go! Stop him now!”

 

Which was when the ninja attacked Greg.

 

Although, he thought, even after he was grappling with the man, ninjas were Japanese, so he guessed that Jiju wasn’t really one. He was bloody strong, though.

 

Greg ducked under Jiju’s arms and rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut. He went down for a moment, but got his breath back and jumped to his feet again.

 

Greg desperately hoped that there wasn’t an extremely brief time limit on whatever John had worked out with Soo Lin, because this was going to take a bit.

 

Jiju landed a good hit on Greg’s jaw, which hurt like the devil but, thankfully, didn’t knock him unconscious. He recovered as quickly as he could, realized that he had been making this unnecessarily difficult for himself, whipped out his gun, and shot Jiju in the foot.

 

“Sorry mate,” Greg said, panting. “But I’ve got a job to do tonight.”

 

Everyone else in the audience had cleared out, so that just left Greg, standing there tired, Jiju, bleeding on the ground, and Shan, struggling against an invisible force.

 

He took out his special handcuffs and tried to go for Shan.

 

But fuck, if it wasn’t difficult.

 

Shan was doing everything she could to will him away. He could feel her pushing, prodding at his mind, at his strength.

 

_Really, hunter_ , her voice whispered, smooth as silk. _Are you sure you wish to capture me? If you free me, I could give you everything you have ever desired. Wealth, power, security. I always keep my promises, hunter._

Greg took another step forward.

 

_A washed out police officer,_ she continued. _With a wife who has fallen out of love with him. You couldn’t catch criminals, you couldn’t trap demons, and you can’t even hunt them without an angel’s help._

Another step.

 

_It would be so much easier just to give me all your worries. I can fix them for you. I can keep you safe from your own insecurities, from your own failings._

Last step.

 

The sound of the handcuffs snapping closed around her wrists broke the tension, and Greg let out a big breath in relief.

 

“You will not survive this,” Shan started to warn ominously. Greg reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and put it to use in shutting Shan up.

 

“Yeah, I’m kind of tired of all the cryptic shit surrounding you, I’d appreciate not having to hear any more of it.” Greg patted her on the head and pulled out his mobile to text John.

 

… …

 

“He’s got her,” John said, reading the message.

 

Soo Lin’s legs wobbled and she finally sunk to her knees in relief. “It’s over,” she breathed. “It’s truly over. I know you will take care of her, John,” Soo Lin said, looking up at John like he hung the stars and the moon. “I know you will drive her from this place.”

 

John smiled, a bit uncomfortable. “I’ll certainly do my best.”

 

And because he was having a moment with someone, Sherlock just had to materialize out of nowhere.

 

“Hey, you got the demon?” he asked rather bluntly.

 

“Greg does, inside,” John sighed. “So where were you in all this?”

 

“Watching,” Sherlock said cryptically. “And busy with other things. Very interesting. I’ll tell you about them later. Let’s get the demon back to the chapel now. Quickly, doesn’t do to keep Heaven waiting.”


	8. Chapter 8

John looked at Shan, once so mighty, brought so low. Her head was bent, and she was muttering to herself, furious at her loss, perhaps. Or plotting revenge, most likely.

 

The exorcist looked over to Sherlock, who was lurking in the darkest corners of the chapel, as was his new habit. The angel considered the scene before him briefly and gave a firm nod.

 

John returned the gesture, pulled the supplies out of his duffel bag, and began.

 

… …

 

“Demons?” Sally said in disbelief. “The two murders we’ve been dealing with are related to demons? I guess that would explain why the killer could, apparently, walk through walls.”

 

“The killer wasn’t a demon himself,” Greg rushed to clarify. “That was Jiju. A constable took him to the hospital to get the bullet wound in his foot treated. That mysterious bullet wound that had nothing to do with me, remember? The demon was the leader. She’s called Shan. We have an exorcist working with her right now.”

 

Sally nodded, frowning. “I really miss the days before the Reveal. Everything was a lot simpler, you know?”

 

Greg sighed, understanding perfectly. It wasn’t often, but sometimes he was hit with a sudden feeling of loss for the life he never got to have. He occasionally missed being a police officer, putting human beings in prison for the wrongs they’d committed, but those days were long gone.

 

“You’ll just help us tie up all the loose ends, then?” Sally asked, sitting down at the chair behind her desk and gestured for Greg to sit in the chair opposite her. “It might be pushing it, but I could probably get some of the higher ups to agree to pay you for the consultation.”

 

Greg waved off her offer. “Thanks, Detective Inspector,” he said with a somewhat cheeky grin. “But I’ll be fine. Working directly with the angels has its privileges, you know.”

 

Sally smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. You’ve been getting familiar with some of the highest authorities there.”

 

“You make it sound dirty.”

 

Sally rolled her eyes. “You know what I meant. So, what are they like? The angels, that is.”

 

“Well, Sherlock’s a bit of a prick,” Greg stated bluntly, watching Sally’s eyes go wide in shock. It was never a good idea to insult one of Heaven’s warriors. “I have met a few other angels, though, and they’re usually a lot nicer. I don’t know...it’s not what I expected, you know? They aren’t so much bright and golden as they’re... big.”

 

“Big?”

 

“Like, Sherlock’s tall for a human, but he just sort of… fills the room, you know? There’s something distinctly alien about him that’s easy to pick up on. It’s sort of like… vibration.”

 

“Vibration?”

 

“A constant buzz of energy, I think.”

 

"I'd like to meet one, then. They sound interesting."

  
"Well, I wouldn't meet Sherlock just yet. I’m sure you'd hate him."

 

“I guess I’ll take your word for it.” She took a moment to look at some of the papers in front of her. “So the murders were related to the smuggling and the smuggling was related to demonic possession.”

 

“Yes,” Greg confirmed.

 

Sally nodded and smiled. “Well, it’s good that we’ll finally be able to close these cases. As always, Greg, your help is very much appreciated.”

 

“Anything I can do, I’m happy to.”

 

… …

 

John wiped his brow, giving Sherlock a tired smile. None of the deities he summoned arrived to help, so John had to go through every single step of the exorcism, chanting for hours to accomplish what would otherwise take only a few minutes.

 

He didn’t think he was going to last long.

 

He tried to convey that to Sherlock with just a look. Sherlock seemed to understand because he abruptly nodded and disappeared.

 

Hopefully, he was going to recruit some help.

 

… …

 

Molly woke up the morning after Shan was taken feeling completely right with the world.

 

She was working with an archangel and studying her passion all day every day. She had a second home in 221B. They were successfully taking down some of the most dangerous demons in the world. And, she had a date with Jim today.

 

It was just coffee, nothing serious, but it was the first time that she stepped out of her comfort zone in ages. And it was about damn time, too. She had wasted too many long weeks pining over an angel (an angel, for Christ’s sake! She sure knew how to pick them. Sherlock wasn’t even _capable_ of wanting her back) and was finally ready to try having a relationship with a nice, normal guy.

 

But again, she was getting ahead of herself. It was just the first date, after all. She hadn’t even had the chance to bollocks it up yet.

 

Which she surely would do, just give her time.

 

But it could still go okay.

 

Today was going to be a good day.

 

… …

 

Sherlock returned an hour later with Father Dimmock in tow.

 

“He’ll take your place,” Sherlock said when there was a break in the chanting. “Just low level stuff to keep Shan here. You can take a breather.”   
  
“Thanks,” John said, exhausted after a night of battling Shan. She was definitely stronger than Hope had been. Her willpower had nearly been enough to topple John over a few times. He was managing, but progress was slow.

 

Father Dimmock took his place and started with just some simple incantations, just the sort of stuff that would keep her from getting away.

 

“How are you holding up?” Sherlock asked, and John knew that he _had_ to be imagining the concern in his voice.

 

“Dealing with it,” John said shortly. “I’m tired, though. And I haven’t made much progress.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock assured him. “I have faith in you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

… …

 

“And Jim was just so _polite_ ,” Molly gushed that afternoon.

 

Greg continued cleaning his handgun and ignoring her.

 

“I mean, I know they say that chivalry is dead, but he even pulled my chair out for me before I sat down! I mean, who even does that anymore?”

 

Greg was quiet. Fortunately, Molly didn’t need prompting.

 

“Super respectful, and a great listener,” she said, sighing dreamily. “He was really interested in demonology and the work that we’ve been doing with Sherlock. I’m going to ask Sherlock if I can let him watch the next exorcism. I think that Jim would really like that.”

 

“I wouldn’t go saying too much to him,” Greg said shortly, reassembling the gun as he spoke. “A lot of what we’re doing here is secret, and a lot of _that_ is not your secret to tell.”

 

Molly looked offended. “I know _that_ , Greg,” she snapped. “I know when to keep something to myself. I’m not an airheaded thirteen year old girl.”

 

“You’re acting like one,” Greg muttered under his breath. But of course, just his luck he supposed, Molly heard him.

 

“You’re being very rude,” she informed him sternly. “And I don’t have to be here to listen to this. I’m going to the library!”

 

Molly left 221B with a huff and a slammed door.

 

Irene looked up at Greg from her usual spot on the sofa. “She’s fucked. He’s using her.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“I’m a succubus,” she said with a shrug. “I know love and passion and I can read pheromones like you can read a book. When you’re attracted to a person, you leave a much bigger mark than you realize. There are usually trace pheromones, stronger the longer they were together or how intense the feeling is.” Irene shrugged. “They just spent hours getting coffee together, and there isn’t a trace of anyone but _you_ on her.”

 

Greg paused in his task. “You mean he isn’t interested at all?”

 

“Not even slightly,” Irene confirmed. “Poor girl is going to get her heart broken. I hope it happens after we find Moriarty, though. The last thing Sherlock wants is for an investigation to be held up by tears.”

 

“God, you’re right,” Greg sighed. “I hope Sherlock doesn’t get wind of this.”

 

“Get wind of what?” the bloody angel said, materializing when he was least wanted, as always. “You don’t have to tell me, I already know. He’s gay, by the way,” Sherlock said, strolling into the back bedroom.

 

“Gay?”  


Sherlock came back, carrying—bizarrely of the all things—a potted plant. “Gay,” he confirmed. “Other than that, I haven’t been able to get much of a read on him. Either he’s an incredibly closed off person by nature or he’s consciously trying to lock me out. I don’t like either alternative. I’m having Mycroft look into this Jim fellow.”

 

“What’s with the plant?” Greg asked.

 

“This?” Sherlock said, holding up the ugly fern. “No idea. Well, I’ll see you later.”

 

Sherlock took the fern and left.

 

“I give up,” Greg announced, finishing with his gun and stowing it away. “I’m going to go home and take a nap. No one is going to stop me.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock came and went as the exorcism carried on. One of the times he returned, he came back with, weirdly enough, a potted plant.

  
On his next break, John asked him about the plant. Sherlock frowned and said that he couldn’t remember why he had it. He was very genuine about his confusion.

 

Which was really, really worrying.

 

John had never, ever known Sherlock to forget anything. Ever.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” John asked on his next break.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock said shortly.

 

“You can tell me if something is wrong,” John said on the break after that. “I’ll at least listen, you know.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock sighed.

 

John did, inevitably, always have to take over the exorcism again, so he never got Sherlock to say any more than that.

 

… …

 

“It’s been five days,” Molly said to Jim. She was worried out of her mind after five days of radio silence. “I think the exorcism is still going on.”

 

Jim smiled at her reassuringly over his cup of coffee. “I don’t think you need to worry yourself. From what you’ve told me, John Watson seems like a very capable man, and Sherlock a very powerful angel. I’m sure that together they will get through it.”

 

Molly nodded, feeling a little bit better. “It just didn’t take so long last time,” she sighed. “I wish I knew what was going on.”

 

Right after she finished speaking, her dinged with a text alert.

 

**Exorcism completed. John will need to recuperate for several days. –SH**

Molly squealed. “Oh, that was perfect timing!”

 

“What?” Jim asked, smiling at her reaction.

 

“They’ve just finished the exorcism,” Molly excited. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go.” Her face fell at the thought. “John was an absolute mess last time. He’s going to need someone to take care of him.”

 

“Well, he’s lucky to have you,” Jim told her.

 

Molly blushed.   
  
She was really starting to like Jim.

 

… …

 

Everyone was gathered in 221B.

 

“We got lucky,” Sherlock said, looking at each individual in turn. “Shan knew more about Moriarty than Hope did. We now know where to begin concentrating our searches.”

 

“Good,” Greg sighed. “That always helps.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “I’ve alerted Mycroft, who is sending his minions throughout the city to further narrow the scope. However, I don’t think that will be necessary, because Moriarty has, apparently, been active in this city the entire time he’s been here.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” John asked. He was beyond exhausted, but was managing to stay awake for their informal little meeting.

 

“We had assumed that he would be lying low,” Sherlock answered. “However, he has been working several jobs this whole time. Based on the information I got from Shan, we can trace two recent murders and one disappearance to Moriarty.”

 

“Wow,” Greg said, looking a bit impressed. “That will please some of the people at the Yard. It’s always a relief, closing a case.”

 

“Just murders?” Irene asked. “There’s growing unrest in the entire London demon community. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was stirring that up as well.”

 

Sherlock brushed that off. “It will settle. We don’t need to worry about that yet. I think that we’ve nearly closed in on Moriarty. Once we manage that, we can deal with the rest of the demon populace, and at least restore it to its natural order if nothing else.”

 

“Alright,” John said. “This is moving faster than I thought it would.”

 

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Well, I couldn’t ask for a better team.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked. “Was that…sentiment?”

 

Sherlock looked horrified with himself. “No, of course not. Simple fact. So. I’ll get you some more information later. I think you’ve earned a day of rest.”

 

Sherlock disappeared, leaving the group staring at each other in confusion.

 

“Any idea what that was about?” Molly asked.

  
“He’s so fucked,” Irene declared, looking pleased. “Everyone is so fucked. At least this is entertaining.” She got up and left the flat without saying goodbye.

 

“I feel like I’m missing something important,” Greg admitted.

 

“Me too,” John agreed. “But I’m too tired  to worry about it, and I usually feel like that where Sherlock is concerned.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock stood before Mycroft with a heavy feeling of shame.

 

The Watcher did what he was best at.

 

He watched.

 

“I think I might be spending too much time on Earth,” Sherlock admitted. “I’m beginning to care.”

 

“Caring isn’t an advantage,” Mycroft reminded Sherlock sternly.

 

“I know!” Sherlock snapped. “It’s involuntary.”

 

“Shut it off,” Mycroft ordered. “The more you feel, the more Grace you will lose.”

 

“I’ll just go back to Heaven for a while,” Sherlock reasoned quickly. “Just…let me get my Grace back and I can keep working with this.”

 

“Now, that I would advise against,” Mycroft sighed. “If you go to Heaven in this state, it will be a very long time before our older brothers will let you out again.”

 

Sherlock froze. “What do you mean?”

 

“Have you looked at your wings lately?” Mycroft asked. “They’re getting darker.”

 

“They are not,” Sherlock said dismissively.

 

“They were white once,” Mycroft reminded him. “They were silver a few days ago.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Grey, brother dear. Getting greyer every day. And,” Mycroft said, pinching a downy grey feather that floated through the air between his thumb and forefinger, “you’re beginning to shed.”

 

“It’s insignificant,” Sherlock insisted, his voice shaking.

 

“It’s your choice, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “I warned you days ago to remove yourself from this. I believe that now might be too late. You can go to Heaven and wait until your Grace returns, most likely allowing Moriarty to get away--”

 

“He can’t!” Sherlock snapped. “You know as well as I do that returning in failure is worse than staying grounded.”

 

“Or you can capture your nemesis and Fall.”

 

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes wide and panicked. “No, there has to be something else.”

 

“I asked you to listen to me before--”

 

“I don’t want ‘I-told-you-so,’ Mycroft. I just…”

 

“Your choice,” Mycroft reminded him gently. “I wish you didn’t have to make it.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I should have listened,” Sherlock finally admitted. “I should have listened before it was too late. I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

  
Sherlock released his, admittedly fraying, wings but before he left, Mycroft said, “I will be here, if you ever need me. Archangel or Fallen, you will always be my brother.”

 

Sherlock nodded a silent thanks and vanished.

 

… …

 

Sherlock landed without caring where he was. He ducked into a darkened alley and let out a frustrated scream through clenched teeth.

 

No, no, no, no, NO!

 

Sherlock slammed his fist against the alley wall.

  
This couldn’t be happening.   
  
This COULD NOT be happening.

 

Not now, not when they were so close to taking Moriarty.

 

He couldn’t be Falling.

 

He couldn’t.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock let John take a couple of days off after the exorcism before calling another meeting.

 

As soon as everyone was seated around the kitchen table at Baker Street (minus Irene, who was lounging against the counter) Sherlock dropped a stack of papers and news clippings in the center.

 

“What are these?” Lestrade asked, immediately digging through them.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Moriarty’s activities, of course. These are the crimes that Mycroft and I have been able to isolate. Now that we know he’s active, it’s been laughably easy to pick out anything that has his signature to it.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“The bizarre, the unexplainable,” Sherlock said. “The crimes that are almost too perfect.”

 

“Sherlock, this one is from twenty years ago,” John said, pulling up a newspaper clipping about a boy named Carl Powers.

 

“That crime was committed by Moriarty’s cult,” Sherlock explained. “They went underground for a couple of decades after he was captured. This was the first major crime committed after resurfacing. The boy was the son of an exorcist. Of course, before the Reveal no one took the man seriously, but he posed a legitimate threat to the mostly hidden demon community.”

 

“I remember him,” Irene said, wrinkling her nose. “Christopher Powers. He was tearing the London nest to pieces. I had to live on the continent until his son was taken care of and the man got the message.”

 

“Alright,” John said, putting the article aside. “But what about these?”

 

“The disappearance of Ian Monkford,” Sherlock said, tapping another article. “A rental car was found abandoned, Monkford’s blood all over the interior.”

 

“And that’s Moriarty?” Lestrade asked skeptically.

 

“It was exactly one pint of blood,” Sherlock explained. “It wasn’t a real disappearance, it was staged. I did a little research. Monkford’s father was a member of a secret demonic cult. Three guesses as to who they worshiped.”

 

“So when Monkford wanted to disappear, he, what, called in a favor?” Lestrade said, skimming the article.

 

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, sounding pleased. “We have Janus Cars to thank for handling all the details. And here, Connie Prince.”

 

“Oh, I heard about this,” Molly said, speaking up for the first time. “Some girls in the library were talking about it. She was that make over artist. I thought she died from tetanus?”

 

“You were trained as a pathologist. How can you tell if a wound was made post mortem?” Sherlock prompted.

 

“Oh, a couple of things,” Molly said, thinking back. “How clean the wound is, if there’s any bruising, if the cut bled at all…”

 

“Good,” Sherlock said, nodding. “Mycroft sent a minion to take a peek at any corpses in the morgue. Connie Prince was murdered, the cut that the tetanus supposedly entered through was made after she died. The housekeeper, Raoul de Santos did it, slowly poisoning her with botox treatments.”

 

“Good Lord,” Lestrade muttered. He pulled out an article at random. “This one?”

 

“Alex Woodbridge, a security guard at an art museum and an amateur astronomer, murdered after discovering that the ‘lost Vermeer’ was forged. He was killed by the Golem, one of Moriarty’s favorite pet killers.”

 

“You’ve gone to the police to make sure that responsible parties are arrested, right?” Lestrade asked.

 

“No, that’s your job,” Sherlock said dismissively. “And here, Andrew West.”

 

“Another murder, then?” Molly asked.

 

“Made to look like he jumped in front of the tracks. His soon to be brother-in-law accidently murdered him after being hired to steal some top secret missile plans from West. He was hired by the Cult of the Spider, which is, of course--”

 

“Moriarty’s cult,” John finished. “I see.”

 

Lestrade gathered the papers. “I suppose I’m off to Scotland Yard, today.”

 

“What’s your plan, darling?” Irene asked, peeling herself away from the counter. “It’s nice that you’ve tracked his activities, but do you know where he is? Do you know who he has possessed?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said shortly. “Do you? I’m not hiring you to sit around look pretty. Where are the Priority One’s I’ve asked you to trace?”

 

Irene rolled her eyes. “I’m doing the best that I can, Sherlock. Demons aren’t stupid. We’ve noticed that someone is taking out our leaders. Every single one of them has thrown up their shields. They aren’t trusting anyone. They aren’t letting even their fellows get close to them. The perimeter that the angels set around the city has them terrified. I can’t get anything from them like this.”

 

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff of air. “Fine, but keep looking. There’s only a few Priory One’s left in the city. He’s got to be there somewhere. Hiding in plain sight, knowing him.”

 

Everyone got up, heading off to the tasks they had become familiar with. Sherlock to God knows where, Greg to Scotland Yard, Molly to the library, and John to speak to an angelologist.

 

Only Irene stayed behind, guarding Baker Street and looking for the psychopath in question.

 

… …

 

In retrospect, they probably should have seen it coming.

 

After all, they had not, in any way, been subtle.

 

And no one listens to Irene, do they?

 

It was their own damn fault, she mused, watching the fire men flail about, trying to figure out if there was going to be another explosion.

 

Gas leak, they said.

  
Fucking idiots.

 

Sherlock materialized beside her and Irene managed to resist the impulse to gloat. Instead, she simply said, “So Baker Street blew up a little bit.”

 

Sherlock frowned at the tiny chaos in the street before them.

 

“I don’t think I even need to make any suggestions about who’s behind this,” Irene said.  

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. Moriarty is sending us a little warning.”

 

“Perhaps we should keep our heads down for a little while?” Irene suggested. “I certainly would like to fall off the grid until this all calms down.”

 

“That’s not an option,” Sherlock scolded. “The longer we wait, the more people that will die. He needs to be brought to justice.”

 

“Well, your friends are mortal,” Irene reminded him gently. “ _John_ is mortal. They could have gotten hurt. There’s still a chance that they could get hurt. You’re bringing them into something they don’t need to be a part of.”

 

“I trust them,” Sherlock said shortly, ending the conversation. “And they are safe for now. You act as though I haven’t had Guardians assigned to them since we started.”

 

“I havent’ seen them,” Irene said, surprised with that information.   
  
Sherlock shrugged. “They’ve been discreet.”

 

“Mycroft then,” Irene sighed. “Has he talked to you about this, Sherlock? You’re…well, you’re changing, to be honest.”

 

“I’m fine!” Sherlock snapped, irritably. “I’m under control. And I would appreciate it if everyone kept their opinions to themselves.”

 

“Darling, if we kept our opinions to ourselves, you would have Fallen decades ago. It would do you good to listen to us now.” Sherlock didn’t respond and Irene gave it up as a lost cause. She turned and walked down the street in search of a meal, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

 

They were going to fall apart if he didn’t get his act together. At first it had been funny, watching the untouchable Sherlock Fall.

 

Now it was just terrifying.

 

… …

 

“Thanks for meeting with me, Doctor Sawyer,” John said, shaking the woman’s hand. “I hope I won’t take up too much of your time.”

 

“Oh, call me Sarah,” she said, sitting down and gesturing for John to do the same. “I’m an angelologist, not a surgeon. And thank you for contacting me. I’ve heard about Sherlock before, but I haven’t had the…experience of meeting him. I think that it’s amazing you work in such close quarters.”

 

“Well, he likes to handle things directly,” John explained. “A human acts as a liaison with the rest of the population. He’s not great with social skills.”   


“And yet he seems to be getting a firmer grasp on emotions?” Sarah asked.

 

John nodded. “Yes, that was the reason for my…concern. In the past, angels that have embraced human emotion have been punished for it. I’m afraid that Sherlock has been out of Heaven for too long with this job. He’s getting sentimental, attached. He’s acting a little bit strangely at times, protecting me one moment and forcing a gun into my hand the next.”

 

“Good Lord, a gun?”

 

“Well, you can see my cause for concern.”

 

Sarah looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, we do have some records of angels Falling, however most of them exist in fictional format. I don’t think that Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ can help us with this. There are some records made after the Reveal, and one of them details an angel that lost her Grace to drinking and seducing mortals. Does Sherlock seem like he’s giving into the, er, more sinful bits of humanity?”

 

John thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not stuff like that. Not drugs or drinking or sex or anything of that nature. Just…feeling things. Good things, like affection and concern.”

 

Sarah hummed, tapping a pen to the top of her lip. “I don’t think that there’s any precedent for this. Or, if there is, there just aren’t any significant consequences to it. Maybe this happens now and then, but isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He might not Fall at all.”

 

John let out a breath, feeling a little bit relieved. “Thanks, it’s just that I worry about that great idiot, you know?”

 

Sarah nodded, understanding. “Angels are…amazing creatures. It’s hard not to get caught up in all their glory. I’m sure he appreciates that you worry about him, but so long as he doesn’t give into temptation, it’s alright that he feels it. I think he’ll be fine, you’ll just want to keep an eye on him.”

 

“Don’t worry,” John promised. “I will.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock found him.

 

Or, at least, he thought he did.

 

It wasn’t difficult to find him, once he knew where to look. The pool where Carl Powers was killed had been abandoned years ago. Now it served as a meeting place for the Cult of the Spider. All Sherlock had to do was show up that evening, then this menace would finally be taken care of.

 

He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

 

Irene was right, they were mortal.

 

He had been foolish for endangering up until this point.

 

… …

 

Greg stepped into 221 B, ignoring the blown in windows and the noise from the street below. “Have you seen John? He’s not answering his phone.”

 

Molly looked up from her book. “No? He said he was going to visit an angelologist friend, but he should have been back by now.”

 

Greg had a bad feeling about this. “Have you seen Sherlock?”   


Molly shook her head. “No, he was mumbling to himself about an hour ago, then he just up and left the flat. I don’t know where he was going.”

 

“Have you seen Irene?”

 

“Earlier,” Molly said, shrugging. “She told me that something was off and then left without an explanation. I’m trying not to think about it, to be honest.”

 

There was a pause.   
  
“Do you have the feeling that we’re being left out of something important?” Greg asked at last.   
  
“Yes,” Molly sighed. “What else is new?”

 

 

… …

 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Sherlock said, stepping out of the darkness of the swimming pool. “I know you’re here, Moriarty. _Moriarty_.” Sherlock drawled the name. “From the Latin _mori¸_ meaning: to die.”

 

“That’s how they gave me the name,” said a terrifyingly familiar voice in a dull monotone.

 

Sherlock whirled around to see John step out of the shadows, looking tired and wearing a rather ridiculous parka.

 

“A long time ago, when I was first born from Hell, I would kill anyone who stood against me,” John continued, his voice flat. “I still do.”

 

“John…? What the hell?” Sherlock stood, utterly numb. Could it have been possible that this entire time John had been possessed? Had Moriarty really become that powerful, that Sherlock hadn’t even been able to sense his presence in his only friend?

 

“Well, well, well, Sherlock,” John said. “This is quite the turn up. I bet you never saw this coming.”

 

Sherlock was frozen.

 

John pulled the front of the parka away, revealing a vest of Semtex strapped to his chest. “What would you like me to make him say next?”

 

Relief clashed with terror as Sherlock understood. John wasn’t Moriarty, but he was still being used as a puppet.

 

“Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer,” John chanted, looking like he was ready to punch something—anything—that got within his reach.

 

“I’d rather speak to you in person, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock said, taking a few hesitant steps toward John.

 

The exorcist widened his eyes, trying to shake his head from side to side. Sherlock stared, uncomprehending, until fiery pain shot through his foot.

 

“What--?” Sherlock looked down and groaned. He had activated a Seraph Trap, circles of black magic drawn on the ground, designed to trap an angel in its confines.

 

“Well, well, well!” a voice sang from the other side of the room. Sherlock looked up and saw a dark haired man with a nice suit and a deranged smile emerge from the locker room. “It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it, Sherlock?”

 

The smile got impossibly wider as Moriarty’s glamors dropped. His eyes when from brown to black, his skin went from pale to translucent.

 

“Jim Moriarty,” he said cheerily, offering a little wave. “Hi!”

 

“Jim, now? It was James before.”

 

“Adapting to the times, my old friend,” Moriarty said with a wave of his hand. “ _James_ sounds like a stuffy old Uni professor. _Jim_ sounds fun!”

 

Sherlock glanced at John, who was glaring at the Seraph Trap with a calculating gaze.

 

“Well?” Sherlock prompted after a moment of silence. “You have me trapped? What are you going to do with me now?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Moriarty sang with uncontained glee. “I have so _many_ plans for you, Sherlock. And we have all the time in the world.”   


“A circle outside then, to keep my brothers and sisters out of here?” Sherlock asked, wanting his suspicions confirmed. “No angels get in, no angels get out?”

 

“Bingo!” Moriarty cheered, looking very pleased with Sherlock. “I’m so glad that you’ve caught on to my little game. Although, I’m a bit disappointed in you that it took so long. I’ve been dropping you hints for a long time, waiting for you to catch up. I even stayed in London for you!”

 

“Yes, why?” Sherlock asked. “Why stay here? Why in _my_ jurisdiction?”

 

“Well, that should be obvious, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, his smile never wavering. “I wanted to see you again. We’re _made_ for each other. You’re the light to my dark, the yin to my yang. Don’t you realize everything we could accomplish together? We could be brilliant, you and I.” Moriarty took a few steps closer, and John took the opportunity to act.

 

He threw himself down at the Seraph Trap and smeared the critical binding rune. The fire in Sherlock’s legs abated. He was free.

 

“Run, Sherlock!” John screamed, but Sherlock merely stepped out of the trap.

 

“Oh, very nice Mr. Watson,” Moriarty chuckled. “Or is it Captain Watson? Doctor Watson? You wear an awful lot of hats. However, I think you’ve rather shown your hand. Both of you.”

 

A red dot appeared on John’s chest as he slowly got to his feet. It was soon joined by several others.

 

 

Trained on John.

 

“Besides, weren’t you listening?” Moriarty scolded. “There’s a circle around this building. No angels in or out.”

 

… …

 

“Why do you think they’re here?” Molly asked Greg, looking at the abandoned pool with suspicion.

 

“Because Irene texted,” Greg answered simply. “She said that a circle of demonic energy designed to trap angels was activated here.”

 

“So what do we do?” Molly asked, clutching a bottle of holy water closely to her chest like a security blanket.

 

“We go hunting,” Greg said with confidence he didn’t feel. “Let’s go.”

 

They hadn’t taken a single step forward when a man with an umbrella suddenly appeared in front of them.

 

“Jesus Christ!” Greg exclaimed, jumping back.

 

“No, I’m afraid not,” the man—angel—said dryly. “He doesn’t usually make house calls anymore. I am Mycroft. I’m--”

 

“The Watcher,” Molly finished. “Sherlock’s mentioned you.”

 

Mycroft smiled, turning to her with milky white, unseeing eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s for Sherlock’s sake that I’m appearing before you now.” Mycroft used the umbrella as a cane, tapping out a path in front of him until he stood just before the chain link fence surrounding the pool. “There’s a barrier here.”

 

“Uh, the fence?” Greg suggested.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No, not the—well, I mean, yes, I suppose the fence, but that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s a barrier of demonic energy around this building. Nothing of Heaven can pass it.” Mycroft turned back to them. “But mortals can. We’re going to need you to break it down from the inside.”

 

“Right, well, we were going in anyway,” Greg said. “How are we supposed to break it down?”

 

“Find the energy source and cut it off,” Mycroft replied. “It’s simple. You’re likely looking for a group of acolytes chanting. Disrupting them will be enough to let us in.”

 

“Right,” Molly said, nodding fiercely. “Let’s do this. Sherlock needs us.”

 

“Do be careful,” Mycroft said as he released his grey wings. “My little brother has grown rather fond of you.”

 

… …

 

“I won’t be joining you,” Sherlock said, trying to think of a way to get John out of harm’s way.

 

“I thought so,” Moriarty sighed. “What if, in exchange for your immortal soul, I let your little pal Watson survive?”

 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, just long enough for John to speak up in his place. “No deal, Moriarty.”

 

“Not your choice,” Moriarty said, his gaze never wavering from Sherlock. “And our dearest angel is very conflicted. Wow, Sherlock. Uncertainty? Sentiment? Dare I say, _love?_ Those are some very… _human_ emotions, aren’t they?”

 

“No deal,” Sherlock said, although it hurt his chest to say the words.

 

“Oh, no,” Moriarty said, looking very disappointed. “Well, you asked for this, Sherlock.”

 

… …

 

“If I were a chanting cult, where would I be?” Greg muttered, sneaking around the building with Molly at his side.

 

“Um, a basement?” Molly suggested.

 

“Works for me,” Greg said with a shrug. “Let’s find the basement.”

 

They moved quickly and stayed low. Greg was familiar with the stance, but Molly looked like a confused turtle. Over all, they weren’t the most intimidating pair.

 

They finally found a door to the basement. Greg picked the lock and they went down. Molly was right, there was a faint sound of chanting coming from deep within the basement.

 

He put a finger to his lips and Molly nodded. They moved as quietly as they could.

 

When they came upon the cult, Greg had to admit he was slightly disappointed. They weren’t even in hoods. It was just a bunch of normal looking people, standing around a really creepy looking symbol on the ground and chanting a bunch of words in an unfamiliar language.

 

Greg took out a bottle of holy water made from delicate glass. He stood up, ran forward, and before anyone could react, shattered the bottle of holy water on the symbol.

 

There was a loud hissing sound and the room filled with dark smoke.

 

Then all the cult members turned to Greg with murder in their eyes.

 

He hadn’t thought this part through.

 

… …

 

No sooner had Moriarty finished speaking when he froze, a furious look passing over his face. “Those idiots!” he hissed.

 

Sherlock felt an oppressive energy lift.

 

The circle had been broken.   
  
“Love to stay and chat,” Moriarty said quickly, clapping his hands together, “but I have to leave now. Say hello to Mycroft for me. Ask him how he’s enjoying his eternal punishment.”

 

Moriarty vanished, and the atmosphere seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as he left.

 

John immediately starting taking deep cleansing breaths, going shaky with relief.

 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. He rushed over, shed the parka from John’s shoulders and ripped off the Semtex vest. He tossed it as far away as he could and John slowly collapsed onto the ground.

  
“Oh my God,” John said, his voice shaking with relief. “Thank God Irene didn’t see that. I wouldn’t have been able to live that down.”   
  
“What, being captured?”

 

“No, you ripping my clothes off in an abandoned swimming pool.”

 

That startled Sherlock with a laugh and after a moment, John joined in.

 

They were interrupted by the sound of something tapping against the tiled floor.

 

… …

 

Before anyone could move, there was a flash of bright light. Greg took a few startled steps back as several angels appeared between him and the cultists.

 

A beautiful woman with skin the color of cinnamon took his arm and pulled him back. “Hello,” she greeted in a soft, soothing voice. “I’m here to take you and Miss Hooper back to your homes. You’ve done Heaven a good service this evening, and it will be remembered.”

 

“Well,” Greg said, bashfully. “All in a day’s work, you know.”

 

Molly let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh as the angel led them back up the stairs.

 

… …

 

Mycroft entered the room, tapping his umbrella and looking very annoyed. “Sherlock, I can’t believe you let him get away.”

 

“I had the situation in hand,” Sherlock protested, although it was a blatant lie.

 

Mycroft didn’t even dignify that with a response. “We’ll be taking Mr. Watson home now. He’s been through a lot tonight. Please report to my office in an hour. We have things to…discuss.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and released his wings, pausing when John gave a shocked gasp.

 

Sherlock looked back at them and blinked back tears at what he saw.

 

His wings were a deep, dark, charcoal grey. And they were shedding so badly he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to fly.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, very, very sadly.

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock lied, his voice thick. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

 

He closed his eyes and prayed he would still be able to fly.

 

He flapped them once and was gone.

 

He landed in Mycroft’s office and let out a breath.

 

He hadn’t completely lost them yet.

  
That was something, at least. Although he didn’t have the faintest idea how much time he had left.


	10. Chapter 10

Irene walked into the seedy pub with as much confidence as she could.

 

She usually hated places like this. They were hotbeds of possessions. She wasn’t fond of demons that couldn’t produce a corporal form on Earth. It was too easy to be lured in by a false face.   


Appearance was important to Irene, it was how she figured people out, how she knew to play them. Possessions took that advantage away from her.

 

And so she hated demon pubs.

 

But all of her other contacts had vanished on her, probably keeping their heads down with the increase in the angelic population in London. She didn’t blame them, she would have done the same thing if she hadn’t gotten herself tied to Sherlock.

  
She reminded herself for the millionth time that she was getting a clean slate out of the deal.

 

Not that she would really use it to her advantage, it would just be nice to relocate to a different city for a while without Heaven’s warriors trying to send her back to Hell.

 

Not a nice place, Hell. Not nearly enough places for her to get a decent meal.

 

The pub was smoky and sticky and smelly. Demons weren’t really worried about the quality of the establishments they frequented. The owners of the pub didn’t bother with upkeep if the clientele didn’t care.

 

She had only taken a few steps in when she realized that something was wrong.

 

Now, Irene wasn’t a high priority demon. She didn’t own the respect and obedience of every demon she saw. But damn it, she had done her fair bit to _earn_ that respect. The hard way. Normally, there would be a few faces turned to her as soon as she entered the room, lower demons eager for a chance to impress.

 

But here, every head was turned away from her. No one made eye contact. No one even acknowledged her presence.

 

She changed tactics and approached the bar tender. He was wiping down the counter and didn’t look up, even with she carefully sat on the disgusting stool.

 

She cleared her throat, and the bartender finally lifted his gaze.

 

His eyes were blue, no trace of the black from possession. No trace of the soullessness from a demon in their corporal form. He was a human, working a demon bar.

 

And yet he still seemed to know who she was.

 

“I willna be servin’ ya,” he said, in heavy highlander dialect. The Scot only met her eyes for a second before looking down again. “Yer nah very welcome here.”

 

“Excuse me?” Irene said icily, tapping her claws on the counter.

 

“Aye,” he said. “Jus followin’ orders.”

 

“Orders?” her voice went a bit shrill and she forced herself to calm down. “From who?”

 

He refused to answer. “Jus get. It isna safe fer ya here.” He kept his eyes fixed to the counter.

 

Irene got to her feet and looked around the bar desperately, pleading silently that someone would meet her eyes. Anyone.

  
Everyone kept their eyes fixed to their drinks, or to their table. No one was saying a word. No one was moving. The pub was deathly silent.

 

Finally, someone took a step forward.

 

It was a corporal low level demon, a girl with white hair falling in perfect ringlets. She may had been beautiful, had her eyes not been gaping bloody holes.

 

“Moriarty knows you work the angels,” she said in a voice belonging to a much younger girl. “He says we aren’t to help you, and we aren’t to hurt you.” She smiled, revealing very sharp teeth. “He wants you unharmed. He has something planned for you.”

 

Irene tried to stamp down on the panic rising in her. “That’s it then? And no one’s to speak to me?”

 

The girl confirmed that by melting back into the crowd, leaving Irene standing alone in the crowded pub.

 

“Alright, then,” Irene said, offering them her best smile. “We’ll just see who comes out on top, when all of this is said and done.”

 

She turned and left the pub with as much dignity as she could. Which wasn’t, she had to admit, very much.

 

She walked quickly, unsure, for the first time in a long time, of what to do.

 

It was too late to turn back now. She would no longer find solace with her brethren. She was stuck, for better or worse, with Heaven now.

 

Irene wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. Perhaps the hysteria would kick in and she would do both.

 

God damn you, Sherlock.

 

Sherlock couldn’t even help _himself._ How was he supposed to help her? When all was said and done, Sherlock would either return to Heaven out of necessity, leaving her and his precious mortals unprotected with Moriarty running loose, or Moriarty would be behind bars and Sherlock himself would Fall into damnation.

 

She was, of course, under no illusions to that inevitability.

 

Sherlock was shedding more and more Grace by the day.

 

Anyone could see it.   
  
Since the encounter with Moriarty, it had only gotten worse.

 

He had retreated inward for a few days, but soon gravitated back to John.

 

 _John_. Irene sneered. The exorcist was Sherlock’s black hole. Pulling Sherlock apart piece by piece, atom by atom, until there was nothing left.

 

And the man had no idea. He didn’t have to faintest clue that he was corrupting one of the most distant, one of the most _untouchable_ archangels that Heaven had to offer.

 

It was making her feel sick inside and Irene didn’t even have a soul or conscience.

 

She wondered what would happen if she told John what his effect was on the angel. Would the exorcist cut himself off from Sherlock, in an effort to save his friend? Would he grow sick with guilt, and be unable to continue this work? Or would he be selfish, like so many mortals that Irene has come to know over the years? Would he wish for Sherlock to Fall, so he could be with the creature he loved?

 

Irene didn’t know. She didn’t know John well at all. She had been avoiding him since she realized his soul was bound to Sherlock. She thought he would be pathetic, sad to watch, pining over something ethereal, something that wasn’t made for this world. The bond wasn’t going to go both ways, and it was just going to destroy the sad little man in the end.   
  
But she was wrong.

 

She had been so very wrong, about so many things.

 

And now look at her.

 

Cast out from her own kind, relying on her sworn enemies for her continued survival.

 

“Irene,” she muttered to herself as Baker Street came into view. “This is a new low, even for you. Nice going, bitch. You’ve earned this.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock listened to Irene’s account of everything that happened with a growing sense of dread.

 

With Irene unable to use her demon contacts, with her shut off from most of the demon energies it the city, she wasn’t going to be any help in finding Moriarty again.

 

And, God, this was _his fault_ , wasn’t it? Wait, was it? Sherlock wasn’t used to guilt yet. He wasn’t sure if he deserved this one or not.

 

“It’s too late for you to get out of this,” Sherlock said when he was finished. “It would appear that the damage is done.”

 

“I just don’t know what to do now,” she finally said. “I’m not stupid, Sherlock. I know that you weren’t keeping me around for my pretty face. Without my connections, I’m useless to you. And I know that I haven’t exactly earned my eternal rewards,” Irene attempted to inject some sarcasm, but it fell flat. She swallowed, looking scared for the first time since Sherlock had known her.

 

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Sherlock said smoothly, getting to his feet. “I’ll ask Mycroft to call in a few favors. We might be able to salvage this yet.”

 

There was a flicker of something on Irene’s face. Had that been hope?

 

She snorted. “Yes, call big brother. See if he can’t find a way out of this mess. Speaking of,” she said, giving Sherlock an appraising look, “you’re in quite a bit of trouble yourself.”

 

Sherlock immediately closed off, turning away from Irene. “I’m fine.”   
  
“Really Sherlock? After all this time, you think you can still lie to me? I’m a demon, darling. I live and breathe lies. I can see right through them.” She took a few steps forward. “And I can see right through you. You’re shedding your Grace like a cat sheds hair.”

 

“I will last,” Sherlock said stubbornly. “I will last until Moriarty is back where he belongs. That’s the most important thing.”

 

“And an eternity of damnation is something to just brush aside?” Irene asked, her voice filled with real concern. Sherlock smiled a little at that. It appeared he was not the only one beginning to succumb to humanity.

 

A small idea sparked up in Sherlock’s mind. It might not turn into anything, but…

 

He might solve Irene’s problem.

  
“An eternity of damnation is something I can live with,” Sherlock answered. “It can’t be much worse than the hell I’m already living.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Irene sighed. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? Outcasts from our little families. Spots of grey in worlds of black and white.”

 

“It isn’t nearly so poetic,” Sherlock protested.

 

“Nothing really is, when it sucks this much,” she agreed. “Well, worse comes to worse, we can be outcasts together. I’ll even let you bring John along if you like.”

 

…. …

 

Molly was sitting quietly in the kitchen, staring blankly at the cup of tea in her hands.

 

She had been doing that a lot since John finally got up the nerve to tell her about Jim.

 

John watched her with quiet concern, wondering what was going through her mind. She was wrecked with guilt, he knew. And she kept going over everything she knew she told Jim, everything she thought she might have told him, and everything she was afraid she had told him. Every couple of hours she jumped up with a new, “What if…!” What if she had accidentally revealed a weakness is John’s exorcisms? What if she had talked about Greg too much, and Moriarty figured out a way to avoid the hunter? What if she revealed one seemingly insignificant detail about Sherlock that ruined everything?

 

Once they heard about Irene, Molly almost collapsed in guilt. She knew for a fact, that was her fault. She remembered ‘Jim’ seeming really surprised when she said that there was a demon helping them. He had been intrigued and asked a lot of details.

  
And now Irene was paying the price for that.

 

John understood Molly’s guilt, but it was eating her alive. He wished he knew the words that would wipe it away. Or if it was even possible for such words to exist.

 

He knew that there was nothing to say or do, though. They just had to keep carrying on.

 

That was all they could ever do, in this world that they lived in, in this war that they fought in: do their best and carry on.

 

The past happened, and couldn’t hurt anymore. The future quickly settled into the present.

  
And the present…

 

Well, the present stung like a mother fucker, but they were surviving it.

 

And with every passing second, it became the past again.

  
They were living

 

They were breathing.

 

They were moving on.

 

… …

 

Sherlock stood before Mycroft and watched his brother think.

 

“I believe that would work,” Mycroft said at last. “If she wants it, she can have it. It wouldn’t keep her safe from Moriarty, of course. This will only help her if you capture him.”

 

“I will,” Sherlock said, utterly confident.

 

“You should have done so by now,” Mycroft admonished. “Sherlock, you should have caught him at the pool, if not much earlier.”

 

“If I had acted at the pool, the risk to John would have been--”

 

“Tragic but necessary,” Mycroft interrupted. “He’s a mortal, Sherlock. We do what we can, but they’re such fragile things. And John is an Old Soul. If he was lost, he’d just be reborn again in a few decades.”

 

“But he wouldn’t be _mine_ anymore,” Sherlock protested, not realizing what he was saying until it was already said.

 

The brothers froze.

 

Sherlock’s breathing quickened, realizing the utter enormity of what he had just said.

 

He was so bloody terrified of _losing_ John. He had lost him so many times before, in all of his previous lives. He had watched every memory of their time spent together wiped away by death. And the idea of it happening again, the idea of it happening in this life, scared him to his very core.

 

And then he figured it out.

 

Everything suddenly fell into place with such stunning clarity that Sherlock was ready to start sobbing out of hopeless desperation.   


Because it was _far_ too late for him. It had been too late for him for a long time.

 

“I was afraid of this,” Mycroft said sadly.

 

“I don’t…” Sherlock’s voice was weak, and tears burned in his eyes. (He must not let them fall. Angels did _not_ cry. Angels could _not_ cry.)

 

“You’ve fallen in love with him,” Mycroft said.

 

The words seemed to shatter something in Sherlock. His knees gave out and he sunk slowly to the floor, his breath shaking out of him like sobs.

 

“No,” Sherlock protested weakly. “No, I can’t.”

 

“He loves you, too,” Mycroft said, as though it was supposed to be reassuring. “Or at least, his soul does. It’s why he keeps finding you, life after life. I don’t know if this body has recognized it yet.”

 

“He barely knows me,” Sherlock whispered. And God, did that admission hurt. This incarnation of John barely knew Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, had John memorized.

 

Mycroft approached his brother slowly and voiced Sherlock’s thoughts. “But you know him. You’ve known him since the day you were born. You’ve met him and learned him and befriended him over dozens of lifetimes. And now you’ve fallen in love with him.”

 

Sherlock curled in on himself. “I can’t love.”

 

Mycroft put a gentle hand to Sherlock’s horribly frayed wings. “I think you can.”

 

… …

 

Irene returned to 221B with a smile on her face.

 

A genuine, normal smile.

 

John wasn’t sure what to do with that.

 

Then he noticed that was dressed like a normal person.

 

And that she didn’t have talons anymore.

  
“What…?”   
  
Irene nodded. “I struck a deal with Mycroft,” she said. She held out her arms and twirled around. “In return for services rendered, I’ve been given humanity. I’ve been given a soul.” Her eyes were shining bright with unshed tears of joy.

 

“You’ve been…” John didn’t even know such a thing was possible.

 

“They said I could start completely over, a brand new life, but I wanted to finish this one out first.” She shrugged. “It might be interesting, growing older. Maybe I’ll fall in love. Maybe I’ll have children.” Irene swallowed. “And maybe I’ll atone for some of the things I’ve done.”

 

“Wow, just…wow,” John finished lamely. “Welcome to mortality.”

 

Irene smiled again. “It’s strange, knowing that I’m going to die. It might be a blessing, in the end. I’ve been around for far too long.”

 

“Is this the last time I’ll be seeing you, then?” John asked.

 

Irene nodded. “I want to leave London. I’ll find a new life somewhere. I haven’t been to America, yet, so that’s where I’ll start, I think.”

 

“I wish you the best of luck, then,” John said, holding out his hand.

 

She clasped it firmly in her own normal, pink, human hand.

 

“I hope you have a good life,” John said sincerely.

 

Irene smiled so wide it must have hurt. “I hope so, too. Take good care of Sherlock for me, John. And tell him that I wish for his happiness as well.”

 

“Alright,” John said, a bit perplexed at how empathetically she said that. “I will. Bon voyage, Irene.”

 

“Adieu,” she bid, turning and walked out of 221B for the last time. 

 

… …

 

That night, when John went home to his flat, Sherlock, as usual, appeared. He had been doing that the last few days. When everything winded down for the day, John usually found himself with Sherlock at his side. Most nights the angel didn’t say anything. They just existed together.

 

Tonight, though, Sherlock’s landing was sloppy. He lost his balance as he materialized. And he didn’t put his wings away soon enough. John saw with a stab of fear that they were losing even more feathers.

 

“Sherlock,” John said as soon as Sherlock righted himself. “Sherlock, you’ve got to fix that.”

 

“I can’t,” Sherlock said stubbornly. “If I try to get my Grace back, my brothers and sisters won’t let me leave again. They’ll keep me there for a few centuries, try to drain the humanity from me.”

 

“Would that be so bad?” John asked, his voice gentle. “Would it be so bad if you let another angel chase after Moriarty?” His heart hurt at the thought of never seeing Sherlock again, but it didn’t compare that Sherlock would join the ranks of the Fallen and let himself be twisted by anger and hate.

 

Sherlock just shook his head. “You don’t understand, John. I can’t leave. Not for that long.”

 

“Is Moriarty really so important to you?” John asked, an unexpected flash of anger stealing over his words. “Are you two really so star crossed that you feel the need to play this game with him?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that, John.”

 

“What is it like then?” John asked, striving for calm but ending up with frustrated. He realized with no small amount of disgust that he was feeling _jealous_ of Moriarty. “What is it that makes Moriarty so damn special that you’re throwing everything away to chase him?”

 

“You don’t understand, John--”

 

“Then tell me!” John exclaimed. “Tell me because I feel ridiculous here, watching you waste away without being a damn thing because you’re so…so… _obsessed_ with this madman!”

 

“It’s not about Moriarty!” Sherlock finally snapped. “It was _never_ about Moriarty! I could have caught Moriarty _weeks_ ago!”

  
“Then why haven’t you?!” John yelled back, absolutely incredulous.

 

“Because then I wouldn’t have needed you!” Sherlock’s voice broke. “I wouldn’t have needed you all this time. I wouldn’t have had to speak to you. To see you. I _needed_ to need you, John. I needed an excuse for you.”

 

John…didn’t really know what to do with that. “What?”

 

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock said, sounding manic. His hands were fisted tightly in his hair, and John was afraid that he was going to start pulling it out in clumps. “You won’t ever understand, John. Because you _don’t remember_. You don’t know me and you don’t know yourself and you’ll never understand this, John.” Sherlock looked up with eyes rimmed with red. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into this. You didn’t ask for it. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

 

“Sherlock,” John started, his heart pounding. He took a step forward, but stopped when Sherlock backed away. “Okay, right, yes, fine. I don’t understand. And I’m not going to understand unless you explain it to me.”

 

Sherlock just shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. And when he looked at John, he looked so _broken_. “I can’t explain it to you. I’ll never be able to. Not properly.”

 

“Well, then I’m not sure what to do right now,” John finally said. “I want you to help yourself, Sherlock. So let’s just…cut all the bullshit and catch Moriarty, alright?”

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “John, if you had to choose between saving yourself or being with someone you cared for, what would you do?”

 

John felt like the floor had disappeared from beneath him. Sherlock couldn’t be implying…could he? The way he was looking at John made him think that he could. But John squashed that down, he refused to give himself hope.

 

He knew what answer he _should_ give Sherlock, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? And Sherlock said a long time ago that he could see into John’s mind.

 

He had to know, then, about John’s stupid crush.

 

Well, much more than a crush, at this point.

 

He had to know, and he had to be rejecting it.

 

“Take care of yourself, Sherlock,” John finally said, no matter how much it hurt him to say it. Because he loved Sherlock. Because he would give up their happiness in an instant if it would keep him safe.

 

But Sherlock just closed his eyes, nodded, and vanished.

 

He left a pile of freshly shed feathers behind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY.   
> So if you don't follow my tumblr, you've probably been wondering what the hell happened to the updates.   
> I had A LOT of health complications. I have a congenital heart defect that is normally rather livable, provided I stay on my medicines.   
> APPARENTLY THE DEFECT GOT MAD AT ME.   
> BECAUSE JESUS CHRIST, THE LAST FEW MONTHS HAVE BEEN UNPLEASANT.  
> One surgery and four hospitalizations later, I'm back to writing.   
> I've finished this story, so I'll be posting a chapter every few days. My other WIP is still...well, a work in progress, but I should be able to continue posting Fire and Ice soon.   
> ALRIGHT.   
> Sorry for the random break.   
> Back to your regularly scheduled program.

Mycroft found his brother catatonic on the side of the road.

 

He scooped the unresponsive angel up in his arms and took him somewhere safe.

 

Sherlock was lost.

 

There was nothing to do but wait for him to find himself again.

 

… …

 

 _Hello,_ the unnamed mortal soul said to the unnamed angel.

 

 _Hello,_ the unnamed angel said in response.

 

 _Have we just been born?_ The mortal soul asked.

 

 _I believe so,_ the angel responded.

 

 _Interesting,_ they both said at once.

 

There was a moment of mirth, of shared joy, of a connection that ran between the two essences of existence and then—

 

Then they were pulled away from each other.

 

They were placed into their bodies and everything began.

 

… …

 

John didn’t see Sherlock for a couple of days.

 

The part of John’s brain that made him a decent human was hoping that Sherlock took his advice and returned to Heaven. He was very worried for the angel, and wanted him to do what was best for himself. The idea of Sherlock Falling was terrifying. He would be lost to bitterness and hate. He would lose everything that made him, well, _Sherlock._

 

The part of John’s brain that was a horrible piece of shit was wishing that Sherlock stayed on Earth. There was a very small part of him that wished Sherlock _would_ Fall. If he did, he wouldn’t have to leave John again. Lately, it felt like a part of himself had gone missing whenever he and Sherlock were apart, and it was growing stronger each day. It would be a relief to rid himself of the feeling.

 

This was a very tiny segment of John’s consciousness, but it still filled him with a great deal of shame. He did his best to shut it up and distract himself with the Work.

 

Just because Sherlock wasn’t around didn’t mean that Moriarty wasn’t a problem anymore.

 

However, without Irene, he and Greg found themselves at a bit of a loss.

 

“Apparently there’s a great deal of dark energy coming from this part of the city,” Greg said, circling a portion of a map of London. The map was spread out on the kitchen table at 221B, held down with various objects that were lying around the flat. Neither of them were good with technology and preferred this method, although it took them an embarrassingly long amount of time to find a physical map of London big enough for their purposes.

 

“There are at least six demon dens in that part of the city,” John reminded him.

 

“Well, that’s probably where we would find Moriarty,” Greg said. “If he were slumming there, looking for him would be like trying to find a needle in a hay stack.”

 

“More like trying to find a specific piece of straw in a hay stack,” John sighed, rubbing his eyes. “He can’t even do us the courtesy of being a needle.”

 

“We need help,” Greg declared, slumping into a chair. “Irene’s human and gone to America, Molly is still miserable over the whole Jim thing, Sherlock’s gone AWOL…” Greg frowned. “Is this even our job anymore? Sherlock was our liaison. Without him we’re out of our depth.”

 

“I know,” John said. “None of the other angels in the city will talk to me.”

 

Greg looked surprised. “Really? They’re always trying to offer me advice.”

 

John frowned. “They disappear as soon as I get close.”

 

“Mate, what did you do?”

 

“Nothing intentional.”

 

… …

 

It started, of course, with a birth.

 

Most things do.

 

A soul was picked out of the field of divinity that comprised It and was molded by the angels.

 

It was carelessness, really, that caused the problem.

 

It happened occasionally, but no one liked to talk about it. An angel was distracted, or a little too forceful, and the soul ripped just slightly.

 

If it was an old soul, it was released back into divinity, and be allowed to merge with It until the end of eternity. But this was a young soul, brand new. There was only one thing to be done.

 

The soul was ripped in half and remolded into two souls. They were a little smaller than normal, to tell the truth, but they would function alright.

 

The only problem with twin souls is that they never actually come out identical. They come out in opposing halves, desperately missing the part of their essence, searching for the piece that would make them whole again.

 

In this case, one soul got the darkness, the other the light.

 

But the angels were crunched for time.

 

Those bloody isles in the rainy, heathen part of Earth needed their own guardian, not that their religion had sunk down its roots. That Watcher Mycroft refused to shut up about it. So they decided just to put the light half into the angel body and the dark half into a human and hope that it all worked out in the end.

 

No one ever figured out who switched the souls.

 

None of the angels would admit to the mistake.

 

Somewhere along the chain of command, a rumor surfaced that a demon had put the dark soul in the angel and the light soul in the human.

 

They decided to blame the snake.

 

This kind of shit was his fault often enough anyway.

 

And It didn’t seem to concerned.

 

So they left it how it was.

 

Mycroft liked the dark little angel anyway. He was a pretty, golden haired little cherub that the humans promptly dubbed Sherlock.

 

They kept an eye out on the human.

 

When he was born, he was as warm and open as the angel Sherlock was cold.

 

The angels in Heaven liked this little child.

 

He’d probably become a saint or something.

 

And molding a saint always led to a promotion.

 

But still, no one would admit to making the switch.

 

And in Hell, the snake laughed and laughed and laughed.

 

… …

 

“You’re going to summon an angel?” Greg asked incredulously.

 

“Well, we need help,” John reasoned, opening the old book and trying to decipher which language it was written in. It looked like a bastardized mixture of Latin and Hebrew. “And Mycroft was involved with this job, so he’ll be able to provide the most assistance. And maybe he’ll tell us what happened to Sherlock.”

 

“Hopefully the son of a bitch went back to Heaven,” Greg said. “He was tearing himself to shreds down here. Do you have any idea what happened to him?”

 

John’s heart skipped, a mixture of anxiety and guilt settling in his stomach as he recalled Sherlock’s confession.

 

“No idea,” John lied, wondering if he would ever forgive himself for pulling Sherlock down.

 

Well, wondering if he would ever forgive himself for being so selfishly glad that Sherlock cared for him as much as John cared for Sherlock.

 

“Hm.” Greg didn’t sound convinced.

 

“I think this is it,” John said, trying to distract the hunter. “This makes almost no sense. God. Okay, I think we’re going to need some blood. And we’re going to need to draw some sigils on the ground and--”

 

There was a flash of light and Mycroft appeared in the room, grey wings standing out proudly. He folded them back into non-existence.

 

“I am a _Watcher_ ,” Mycroft reminded them. “I know everything. Were you really going to try and acquire two gallons of blood just to call me?”

 

“Is that how much we needed?” John asked, peering at the text. “Huh. Yeah.”

 

Mycroft regarded John for a moment with blank eyes. Eventually he held out his hand. John shook it after a moment’s hesitation.

 

“John Watson,” Mycroft said. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced in this life.”

 

“Ah, no,” John said. “Past lives, then?”

 

Mycroft smiled. “You really have no idea, do you? I wonder what my brother sees in you.”

 

“Pardon?” John took a little bit of offence to that.

 

“Never mind,” Mycroft said, shaking Greg’s hand as an afterthought. “I see you two are still looking for Moriarty.”

 

“Well,” Greg said, “with Sherlock back in Heaven, we figured that we might as well continue where he left off.”

 

Mycroft smiled a polite, cold little smile. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Lestrade. My brother has not returned to Heaven.”

 

Greg looked surprised. John fought warring halves of anger and joy.

 

“What’s he doing then, abandoning the search?” Greg asked, getting more annoyed the more he thought about it. “We’ve been bumbling around for days while Moriarty runs wild!”

 

“Sherlock’s a bit preoccupied, at the moment,” Mycroft said. John could tell that the angel would not be elaborating further. “I’m trying to convince him to return to Heaven, though. Hopefully I will be successful soon. Until then, he is still assigned to the Moriarty case, and will not be replaced. Since you two have admirably chosen to continue putting yourselves in the line of fire, I will assist you. Hopefully we will make some progress.”

 

“Thank you,” John said sincerely, although his mind was somewhere else entirely.

 

What was Sherlock thinking?

 

And what did Mycroft mean, he was preoccupied?

 

… …

 

Angels, on occasion, get lost.

 

They get lost in memory.

 

They get lost in their centuries and millennia of existence.

 

They forget nothing. They observe everything.

 

And sometimes it overwhelms them.

 

It can come from nowhere.

 

A tiny trigger will open the gates and drown the angel in recollection.

 

A particular bird song.

  
The sun hitting the petals of a rose in just the right way.

 

One tiny memory that causes the rest to pour forth.

 

For Sherlock, he trigger was always John.

 

A hundred times over, John.

 

Because with every life, with every face, there were some things about him that remained the same. The way that he smiled. The way that he ducked his head a bit when he was embarrassed. Even the lives when John was born a woman held similarities to his lives as a man.

 

For a long time these memories were colorless. They were just recollection. Details. They were not tainted with feelings, with emotions.

 

But now, Sherlock was not just feeling the present.

 

He was feeling all the emotions denied to him over the centuries. He relived each memory with love, with anger, with frustration.

 

With agony.

 

Because each life always ended the same.

 

John always died. He almost always returned to It.

 

Sherlock always chased after. He always tried to get ahold of that soul. To bring it within him before it got away again.

 

He needed it, the other half.

 

He needed it so badly he could scream.

 

… …

 

The young boy looked up at the brilliant being with a smile.

 

“Are you an angel?” the six year old asked innocently.

 

“I am,” the angel replied, gazing down at the young boy with curiosity.

 

He felt nothing, looking at the tiny human before him, and yet…

 

“Do you want to play with me?” the boy asked. “No one else does.”

 

“Alright,” the angel agreed. “What should I call you?” he asked.

  
“Jon,” the boy replied. “Are you Michael the archangel?”

 

“No,” the angel said, “I’ve met him though. He’s very impressive. He has a sword. I am Sherlock.”

 

“How old are you, Sherlock?” Jon asked.

 

“Seven,” Sherlock answered honestly.

 

Jon’s eyes lit up. “You’re so old! You’re a whole year older than me!”

 

“We are quite young,” Sherlock corrected. “Although there will be a time when both of us are old indeed.”

 

“Yeah but that’s forever away,” Jon said sagely. “We can play right now. What do you want to play?”

 

“You choose,” Sherlock allowed, feeling very generous for it.

 

… …

 

“Patrol this area,” Mycroft had said before he sent them off. “There’s a Priority One lurking. It’s not a possession but it’s dangerous. It might lead us to Moriarty.”

 

But of course it didn’t.

 

Of course it turned out to be a hellhound.

 

“What the bloody fuck is a hellhound doing in London?” Greg yelled as they ran.

 

“I don’t know, but it’s faster than we are!” John said. He glanced over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. The massive hound was black as coal, with glowing red eyes and very sharp teeth.

 

Mycroft had given him a blessed bullet just before he left, but he only gave him one.

 

He had one chance to make this shot.

 

John pulled out gun, stop running, watched the hound approach him rapidly, and took aim.

 

 _If I die,_ John told himself in the last second, _and Sherlock is not in Heaven waiting for me, I’m going to resurrect myself so I punch him in the face._

 

… …

 

 _Hello,_ the soul said when Sherlock caught up with it. _Haven’t we met before?_

_Yes,_ Sherlock said. _I am the angel that played with you when you were six._

_Oh yes,_ the soul said. _That was when I had just started being Jon. That was a good life. Shame it didn’t last very long._

Jon had died by drowning, although he had saved his daughter’s life in the process.

 

 _You are returning to It,_ Sherlock said. _You will soon forget that life._

_That’s alright,_ Jon’s soul said. _It was just temporary anyway. Won’t you be coming with me?_

_No,_ Sherlock said, a bit regretful.

 

 _Why not?_ Jon asked, sounding genuinely confused. _You’re my other half._

_I know,_ Sherlock said, wondering if this was what sadness felt like. _It happens occasionally. Souls split. We don’t like to talk about it. The halves usually find each other again, when they return to It._

_But that won’t happen to us?_ Jon asked, sounding devastated.

 

 _No,_ Sherlock said, knowing for certain that this what was sadness felt like. _I do not die. My soul will never be released._

_That’s not fair,_ Jon’s soul insisted. _I don’t want to be a half._

_I will find you in your next life,_ Sherlock promised.

_I will be born as soon as I can,_ Jon said, sounding determined even as he faded away. _So we won’t be apart for too long._

Sherlock found himself alone in divinity.

 

The feeling of sadness faded as soon as it had come. He wished Jon the best and continued with his duties. He had a civilization to protect, after all.

 

… …

 

Thank God that John was a good shot.

 

Greg disposed of the body, having dealt with hellhounds in the past.

 

John returned to his flat, intent on washing off the sweat and dirt from the hunt and getting some sleep.

 

He wasn’t expecting to see Sherlock.

 

… …

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, feeling a spark of what might be hope.

  
The young woman looked up from her garden warily. “Hello,” she said, looking over her shoulder. Her father was chopping wood a few feet back and she relaxed slightly. “Do I know you?”

 

The spark died, and Sherlock felt nothing once again. “My name is Sherlock,” he said, wondering why he was wasting his time here.

  
“I’m Jane,” she said. She ducked her head. “Do you need some help?”

 

“I’m just looking for an old friend,” Sherlock said. “I suppose he isn’t here.”

 

“Well, what’s his name? I can ask my father,” Jane offered, giving Sherlock a shy smile.

 

 _There he is,_ he thought feeling content. “No need,” Sherlock said. “It’s no longer necessary.”

 

… …

 

“You should have gone back to Heaven,” John said before Sherlock had a chance to talk over him.

 

“I couldn’t,” Sherlock said, sounding utterly defeated. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

 

“Sherlock?” All the fire burnt out. John couldn’t lecture Sherlock when he was like this.

 

Sherlock looked sick. There were bags under his eyes. He hadn’t de-manifested his wings, and they hung limp and shredded and black as pitch.

 

“The goodbyes are fine,” Sherlock started.

 

… …

 

 _Where am I?_ Jane’s soul asked when Sherlock caught her.

 

 _You died,_ Sherlock said. _You killed yourself._

_Of course I did,_ Jane said. _I remember now. What happens next?_

_You will be reborn immediately,_ Sherlock replied. _As punishment, you will not be allowed to return to divinity. Your next life will be a difficult one, filled with hard work and bitterness._

_I don’t get to stay?_ Jane asked, sounding scared. _But I killed myself so I could be with the angels. I wanted to stay with you._

 

 _That was a mistake,_ Sherlock said sadly. _You should not have done that._

_You should not have made me fall in love with you,_ Jane said angrily. _Do you know what you do to us mortals? Every year you visited my village, and every year we all fell in love with you. With your perfection. It was agony, every day you weren’t with me I wanted to claw my eyes out of my head._

_I’m sorry,_ Sherlock said. _I will not bother you in your next life._

_No!_ Jane’s soul was panicked. _Don’t do that! Please, see me again. But don’t see me in your perfection. I can’t take that again._

_Promise you will never kill yourself again and I will._

_I promise,_ Jane’s soul, Jon’s soul, vowed.

 

… …

 

“The goodbyes are hard but I can deal with them,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

John closed the distance between them and gripped Sherlock’s arms. “Sherlock, Sherlock look at me.”

 

“I can’t take another hello,” he said wretchedly. “I can’t do that again.”

 

… …

 

Dozens of hellos.

 

Every time, there was a spark of hope.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, staring at the unfamiliar face with the familiar smile.

 

The seventeen year old boy gave him an annoyed glance. “We’ve closed for the night, milord. And I’m just the apprentice, the blacksmith will be back in the morning.”

 

“I’m here to see you,” Sherlock said.

 

The boy finally met Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t think I know you, sire,” he said.

 

… …

 

Sherlock stared at the stain glass window. Being in the church calmed him.

 

Father Stamford reentered the church, having gone to bring in an exorcist. And behind him—

 

Sherlock hid a smile.

 

After all these lives of Sherlock finding Jon, Jon finally found him. Maybe this was the life. Maybe for once, Jon would remember.

 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?”

 

“You’re an archangel, Sherlock. Stop looking for excuses to play with human technology,” Father Stamford said, although he was already digging through his pockets to fulfill the angel’s request.  

 

Jon looked at Sherlock with fascination. “You’re an archangel?”

 

“And you’re an exorcist,” Sherlock said.

 

Jon smiled. “Here, you can use my phone.” He passed the device over and met Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Sherlock held his breath, the ever present spark of hope flickering back to life.

 

“John Watson,” the exorcist introduced himself, devoid of recognition.

 

“Sherlock,” the angel replied, feeling that spark of hope die again.

 

He was pretty sure it had gone out for the last time.

 

… …

 

“Talk to me, Sherlock,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Sherlock looked down at him, seeing a gaze full of recognition, full of love.

 

He needed that, he needed that so badly. He couldn’t live without it.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, almost numbly.

 

“Yes, we’ve met,” John said impatiently. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

 

“I’m love with you,” Sherlock said with such heartbreaking honestly he was amazed his wings didn’t fall off then and there. “I’m in love with you, John. And there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow my tumblr at emptycel.tumblr.com if you want to receive news in case I go AWOL again. Or you can just check the site if I disappear again. I try to post there if something comes up and I can't continue to update my fics.


	12. Chapter 12

“Is it…such a terrible thing?” John asked, his quiet question sounding impossibly loud.

 

Sherlock gave him a helpless shrug. “It certainly doesn’t appear to be good.” His limp, ragged wings spoke for themselves.

 

“I don’t understand…” John blinked rapidly, warring with the information in front of him and his own feelings on the matter. “I mean, it’s _love._ It’s _can’t_ be something awful.” A thought occurred to him and he his spine went rigid. “Is it the gay thing? Is that the sin?”

 

Sherlock scoffed, sounding like himself for a moment. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. It’s the _human_ thing. I am an angel. We do not hate. We do not love. We simply are. Love is a temptation.” Sherlock looked up, his quicksilver eyes burning into John. “Desire is a vice.”

 

They were still standing so close to each other. John easily reached across the distance and took Sherlock’s hand in his own. The angel did not resist him.

 

“Sherlock,” John started, not even sure where he was going to go with this. His feelings on the matter were so tangled and twisted with each other that he wasn’t even sure what he wanted, what he needed. “Sherlock, I care for you a great deal. You know my mind, you know my thoughts. You know that I love you. You know that I want you.” John cleared his throat and called upon all of his courage. He felt like a soldier making his last stand, and that was a comparison he could make with utter confidence. “And Sherlock, because I love you, we can’t do this. I refuse to do this.”

 

The silence was horrific.

 

“What?” Sherlock breathed, sounding shattered.

 

“You have to go back to Heaven,” John said, his voice betraying him. His throat was closing up and his breath was starting to shake but he had to get through this. Goddammit, there was no way that he was going to let Sherlock throw away his Grace for him. “You have to heal yourself. You have to leave me behind.”

 

“I _can’t_ ,” Sherlock said, gripping John’s hand tighter, pulling him closer. “I can’t leave you behind, John. You’re my other half. I need you.”

 

“You’ll see me when I die, won’t you? I’m already halfway done with my life here. Waiting a few decades should be nothing to you. I believe that I was promised a place in Heaven.”

 

Sherlock’s expression shuttered, his eyes dropping. “That’s…not necessarily true.”

 

That threw John slightly. “What?”

 

“Heaven is a very pretty lie we tell mortals,” Sherlock admitted after a moment. “The truth is…whether you were good or bad, whether you prayed or not, no matter which religion you belong to…we all return to It. Some call It God. Some call It Nirvana. It is the essence of Divinity, and It is everywhere. Your soul remains your soul, but all your essence of self, everything that made you John…will be gone. I will not see you again. Not until you are born again, and then…it’s so hard. And I’ve made that mistake too many times before.”

 

John shook the revelation off as best as he was able. His faith in Heaven had been halfhearted at best, and hopefully it wasn’t something that he was going to have to worry about yet. “Sherlock, if you destroy yourself and Fall, I would never ever forgive myself for standing by and letting it happen,” John said, tugging out of Sherlock’s hold. “The Fallen are…they are cursed and wretched things and I will not live to see you become one of them.”

 

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, tears escaping at last. “I can fix it. I can make it all okay. I swear to you, John. Please just…give me something to fight for.”

 

“The only thing you can do to fix this is make yourself better. Please, Sherlock. Go back to Heaven.”

 

“I can’t,” Sherlock said, his voice flat. “It’s too late for me.”

 

John’s heart plummeted to the ground. He choked out a shocked, “What?”   
  
“My wings aren’t strong enough to take me there,” Sherlock said, absolutely certain. “I don’t have enough Grace to make it back inside. I would Fall before I got there.”

 

John felt a wave of rather surprising anger.

 

“You _idiot,_ ” he hissed, making Sherlock jump back slightly. “You’ve condemned yourself?!”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding somewhat ashamed. “But it’s for the best, I think.”

 

“How, Sherlock?! How has this been for the best?”

 

“This way I can finally capture Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “And this way…I don’t have to be numb again.”

 

That brought John up short. “I don’t understand.”

 

“It’s not that angels aren’t allowed to feel, John. It’s that we _can’t._ All the sadness, the anger, the hate…all of that is worth joy and excitement and passion and love…” Sherlock reigned himself in slightly. “They are…terrifying and overwhelming, but they are so bright and so real and they make me feel like I am _living_ and not just existing.”

 

“But it’s…Sherlock it’s Divinity. It’s Grace. It’s perfection.” John was genuinely confused. “Why would you give it up? It’s what all of us on Earth are scrambling to catch a hold of.”

 

“Some things are worth it,” Sherlock said, fine tremors starting in his hands. “Some things are worth Falling for.”

 

“This is what Moriarty wants,” John reminded him, grasping for something, some piece of logic that Sherlock would be able to appreciate. “He wants you to Fall from Grace.”

 

“He wants me to plummet into Hell,” Sherlock corrected him. “I don’t intend to Fall that far. Hopefully I’ll be able to redeem myself before it’s all over.”

 

“Redemption,” John huffed with a small laugh. “That’s the big promise, isn’t it? That we all have: the chance to redeem ourselves.”

 

“We have to hope that’s the case,” Sherlock said. He caught John’s hand again and brought his fingers to his lips. He didn’t kiss them, he just brushed his lips across the knuckles lightly, fleetingly, dropping John again before he had the chance to react. “Although I’m not innocent when it comes to succumbing to temptation.”

 

“Sherlock--” John started again.

 

“I know your mind, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “I know that you’re stubborn and noble and good, and I know that you mean it when you refuse me.” Sherlock drew himself up straight. “And I accept that.”

 

“Sherlock--”

 

“But hear me on this, John Watson,” Sherlock said, leaning in close. “I will fight for you. I will fight long after I am stripped of my Grace and my wings fall to shreds. You may have been the soldier, but I was—I still am—an archangel. I know how to go to battle and I will never, ever give up on you.” Sherlock drew back again and offered a bitter smile. “I let you go again and again and again over the centuries, and I refuse to do it once more. You are my other half and I am so very tired of being incomplete.”

 

John was overwhelmed, and stared at the beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely mad creature in front of him with something akin to awe.

 

“This is my vow,” Sherlock said solemnly. “You have returned to me so many times and I promise that I will now return to you.”

 

He stretched out his pathetic wings, flickered for a moment, then vanished from existence.

 

John’s legs slowly gave out and he sunk to the floor, staring at the pile of pitch black feathers. He picked one up and watched numbly as it crumbled to ash in his hands.

 

… …

 

Moriarty was tired.

 

He was _tired_ of waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to return to Earth. Waiting for a chance to escape his prison. Even now, he was waiting on the roof of a hospital for that bloody angel to find him.

 

Not that he would get the payoff he had wanted. That stupid exorcist was ruining all of his carefully laid out plans.

 

Sherlock wasn’t supposed to Fall like _this._ He was supposed to Fall to temptation, just like the countless of his kind before him.

 

Just as that beautiful woman did, so very long ago, when he suggested that she take a bite of a crisp red apple.

 

 

 

 

“I owe you,” Moriarty said quietly when Sherlock staggered into existence behind him. “I. O. U. I promised you a Fall, Sherlock. But I never wanted it to happen like this. It’s that Watson fellow’s fault. I tested him a few years back, you know, once I realized that he had been reborn. All I did was have one of my minions nudge a bullet a few inches to the left. But did he succumb to bitterness? To darkness? Nearly,” he said, turning around to face the ragged angel. “But the man’s soul is _incorruptible._ It’s my fault, I suppose, for switching the souls, but we can’t really anticipate all the outcomes of our actions, can we?”

 

“Let’s just end this,” Sherlock said, sounding weary. “I’m tired, James. I can’t do this anymore.”

 

“No, you can’t, can you?” Moriarty said, but there was no joy there. “But I don’t think that you’ll ever join me, not even if you Fall all the way to Hell. You’re too _good._ You’re made of darkness and yet you are so _pure._ ” He rolled his eyes as he sauntered forward. “Saint Sherlock the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of that nasty old devil. May God rebuke him, we most humbly pray--”

 

“Moriarty, I’m tired of these games.”

 

“—And do thou, O _Prince_ of the Heavenly Host, cast in to Hell, Satan and all the _evil_ spirits who prowl about this silly little world world…”

 

Moriarty stood just in front of Sherlock. “Seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out what Sherlock was planning. It wasn’t like him to rush in headfirst without any backups in place. “I tried to ruin your soul, Sherlock, I really did. I tried to do it so many times. But I couldn’t do it, in the end. The honor wasn’t mine to have. In the end, Saint Sherlock was ruined by love.” Moriarty sneered. “What a fucking disappointment.”

 

“Make no mistake, Moriarty,” Sherlock said, his expression dark. “I may be an angel, but I am by no means a saint.” There was a calculating moment of silence before he quietly uttered, “Lazarus.”

 

“Lazarus?” Moriarty asked incredulously. “That poor sod who was returned from the dead?”

 

 “Redemption,” Sherlock said simply. “Rising again. Proving yourself. Receiving forgiveness. They’re common themes in this little religion of ours. And I know someone who has been waiting for redemption for a very long time. Isn’t that right, brother?” Sherlock said just over Moriarty’s shoulder.

 

Moriarty tried to turn around, but he was locked in place.

 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he started before the sound of Mycroft’s voice drowned him out and sent him into darkness.

 

 

… …

 

“Was that satisfying?” Sherlock asked Mycroft wryly once Moriarty vanished.

 

“We could have done this weeks ago,” Mycroft sighed. “And then we wouldn’t be in our current predicament.”

 

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder weakly. “This was inevitable, brother. I am not angel material.” The last few feathers were drifting slowly off his wings. “I don’t have any time left. I don’t know what will happen to me now.”

 

“Neither do I,” Mycroft admitted. “An angel has never Fallen in love before.”

 

“At least I’ll set a precedent,” Sherlock said, trying to smile. “And I can’t believe you just made a pun.”

 

“A lapse in judgment,” Mycroft said drily. He cleared his throat. “How did…how did John react? When you told him?”

 

“Like you don’t know,” Sherlock scoffed. “You See everything. He rejected me, which wasn’t surprising.”

 

“If you really think that’s what happened, then I weep for your powers of observation, brother,” Mycroft said, giving Sherlock a pitying look.

 

“There’s hope then?” Sherlock asked, not daring to let himself feel it.

 

“You promised to fight for him,” Mycroft reminded Sherlock gently. “I wouldn’t go back on that just yet.”

 

… …

 

Moriarty opened his eyes to a dark room in an unfamiliar place.

 

Where…?

 

He tried to take a step forward, but his movements were sluggish, that he was wading through molasses.

 

Consecrated ground.

 

 

… …

 

Molly didn’t really know what to do with herself anymore.

 

She had really, really screwed up with Jim. She didn’t trust herself with the investigation anymore, despite the reassurances of John and Greg.

 

She also couldn’t abandon the endeavor entirely, though. So she tried to make herself useful in more subtle ways.

 

Today she was going to clean out the chapel. John would need everything neat and organized when he finally took on Moriarty.

 

She opened the door to the chapel and stopped dead in her tracks.

 

Jim stared back at her.

 

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

 

“Well, hello my dear.”

 

… …

 

John was sitting on the floor of his flat, staring at a pile of ash, and willing everything to go back to the way it was three weeks ago.

 

When he just had an unrequited crush on Sherlock.

 

When he took the exorcisms as he got them.

 

When he had never heard of the demon Moriarty before.

 

But no matter how much willpower you have, you can’t do something like that.

 

Everything had gone to hell so quickly. For all he knew Sherlock had already Fallen, Moriarty had gotten away, and everything had been for nothing.

 

His mobile started to ring and for a few moments he considered switching the damned thing on silent.

 

But no, he still had his obligations. Under everything else, John was still a soldier in the end, and duty took precedence.

 

He answered the phone and immediately pulled it away from his ear, unprepared for the shrieking that followed.

 

“What did you say?” he asked Molly. “Repeat it please, as calmly as you can.”

 

“Moriarty is in the chapel,” she said breathlessly. “I went there to clean up and I saw him standing there and I turned around and got the hell out of there because I’m not an idiot. Then I called Greg. Now I’m calling you. I can’t reach Sherlock, although I’m sure he had something to do with Moriarty getting there in the first place.”

 

John let out a thin sigh of relief. Maybe everything wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. They had Moriarty on consecrated ground and Sherlock was still in the game. Or, at least he had been long enough for John to finish the job.

 

“You’ve done well, Molly,” John assured her, getting to his feet. “Do not go back into the chapel without Greg or me. Go to the main church and get a priest to bless you. Have Greg do the same when he gets there. Moriarty is too powerful to take chances with.”

 

“Roger that,” Molly said. “I’m heading over to the church now. I’ll tell Greg to do the same. He should be here in twenty minutes. Can you give me an ETA?”

 

“Not sure what traffic’s like,” John said, moving around his flat and gathering his equipment one handed. “I’ll try to be there in twenty, might take a little longer. But I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’s time to finally take care of this son of a bitch.”

 

… …

 

“What will you do now, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, standing by his brother’s side.

 

He looked so small, and so exhausted, the burden of the last few weeks weighing heavily on his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged one slumped shoulder in reply. The remains of his wings hung dead and limp at his sides.

 

“I’ll manage,” Sherlock said at last. “I’ll bother John, most likely. He can’t turn me away forever. Eventually he’ll get over the anger or guilt or whatever it would be that he’s feeling.” Sherlock paused for a moment. His expression vulnerable. “I’m still not used to emotions, and I can’t guess how he’ll feel but…he _will_ get over this, won’t he Mycroft? He’ll forgive me for this one day?”

 

“If not this life, then the next,” Mycroft reminded him gently. “The Fallen are still immortal, Sherlock. You’ll have time to find him again.”

 

“I don’t want to find him again,” Sherlock said. “Why can’t this life be good enough? Why can’t the current life _ever_ be good enough?”

 

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said, unable to comprehend his brother’s turmoil. He could only help where he was able. “Would you like me to…finish it?”   


After a beat, Sherlock nodded, squaring his shoulders. He stepped up onto the edge of the hospital roof to give Mycroft better access.

 

“Make it quick, brother dear,” Sherlock asked with a small sneer.

 

Mycroft saw right through his brother’s attempts to regain his normal self, but he didn’t say anything. It was kinder just to get this business over with.

 

He gripped the last shreds of the wings by the base and pulled.

 

Sherlock Fell.

 

… …

 

John arrived at the chapel breathless with anxiety and anticipation. He texted Molly and Greg and they met him at the door. Greg was armed to the teeth and Molly was clutching a book on demonology and trembling.

 

“I stopped by 221B,” Greg explained. “Brought Molly the book with the most information on Moriarty. And I got some extra toys,” he said, holding up his various demon hunting weapons with a sheepish smile. “This guy’s been built up so much, I figured that having all of this wouldn’t hurt.”

 

John gave both of them a nod. “Alright,” he said, taking a breath and turning to the doors. “Let’s end this.”

 

… …

 

Moriarty sat in the rickety wooden chair set in the center of the room.

 

They would bind him soon enough, after all. There was no point in resisting it.

 

No, Moriarty was done resisting.

 

His fun had been spoiled, after all.

 

He’d honestly prefer to go back to Hell, at this point.

… …

 

They opened the door and confronted Moriarty warily.

 

He was sitting in the chair, relaxed, his legs crossed. His hands were up in a gesture of surrender and he was smiling at the group in real enjoyment.

 

“The gang’s all here,” Moriarty said in his disturbing singsong voice. “What a _pleasure_ it is to finally meet all of you at once.”

 

John didn’t waste any time. He tossed his duffel on the ground, rifled through for his Bible, and started to pray.

 

Molly opened her book to a marked page and started muttering under her breath.

 

Greg gave Moriarty a good dousing with holy water, which made the demon flinch but did little else, and tried to bind him to the chair.

 

“You don’t really have to bother, Mr. Lestrade,” Moriarty said, still smiling. “I’m on consecrated ground. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“For my own peace of mind, then,” Greg said, cuffing Moriarty to the chair.

 

“Amen,” John finished. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I bind you here.”

 

“Good luck, Dr. Watson,” Moriarty said with a smile. “We’re both trapped here until you complete the job or keel over from exhaustion. I wish you the best.”

 

“I call upon the power of the Father,” John continued, ignoring Moriarty. “I call upon His glory and His perfection. I call upon Him to judge the creature before me and send him into Hell. I call upon the power of the Son. I call upon He who loved us and sacrificed his life on the cross for us sinners. I call upon the power of the Holy Spirit. I call about Him to fill me with the strength to send this demon back into Hell. I call upon Holy Mary, the Mother of God…”

 

John continued for a long time. For a monotheistic religion, there was a freaking lot of figures to call upon.

 

Eventually, he stopped summoning, cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and began.

 

… …

 

Greg watched the Latin pour from John’s mouth with fascination. The complicated words that sounded almost, but not quite, like English were effortlessly incanted by the exorcist. John, in this state, was a force to be reckoned with. Power practically poured off of him as he called upon powers that Greg never fully understood or believed in.

 

And yet, Moriarty just sat there and smiled.

 

John went at it tirelessly, but the demon didn’t budge. Everything John did or said washed over him like water. He just made himself comfortable and stared back at John without ever wavering.

 

It didn’t even look like Moriarty was pushing back, not the way that Shan had to Greg. He was simply watching the show, looking greatly entertained by what he saw.

 

It was unnerving to say the least.

 

But John didn’t give an each either. He didn’t pause for rest, he barely paused to take a breath. He just kept going, kept chanting, kept begging God or whoever was listening for assistance, kept pushing at the demon for all that he was worth.

 

Greg didn’t know what he could do to help.

 

He just closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started to pray.

 

He really hoped that someone was listening.

 

… …

 

Molly had watched enough exorcisms to know that this one probably wasn’t going well. Jim—Moriarty—wasn’t reacting to anything. There were no cracks in his composure. Even the holy water barely made him flinch.

 

John was the best of the best, but this was too much for him. Moriarty was too ancient, too powerful. He made the other Priority One possessions look like benevolent hauntings by comparison.

 

She briefly considered getting out of there.

 

She thought about leaving the chapel, about going back to her flat and hanging out with her cats and the occasional spirit that haunted the building.

 

But those thoughts didn’t last long.

 

John trusted her. He had trusted her this far, even though she had been the one had gone and fraternized with the enemy. Greg trusted her too, though God knows why. The man was slow to rely on anyone, but he was ready to drop everything and come to the church without questions, just because Molly had asked him to. They were a team, the three of them.

 

Well, they were the remains of a team. With Irene gone and Sherlock…

 

What had happened to Sherlock?

 

He had Fallen, or he was Falling. That much was obvious to Molly. She had researched angelology as much as she had researched demonology, after all. But what Molly couldn’t place was _why._ Fallen angels are victims of sin and temptation.

 

All Sherlock had done was love a human.

  
There was nothing she had come across in her research that ever mentioned an angel becoming a Fallen for love.

 

But Sherlock was fairly unique.

 

If anyone would Fall for an unprecendeted reason just to be contrary, it was him.

 

Molly wished him the best, wherever he was.

 

He couldn’t help them now. They had to rely on themselves.

 

And John was struggling.

 

Taking, a deep breath, Molly gathered her courage and closed her eyes. She prayed that John would take whatever strength, courage, and loyalty she had left to give.

 

… …

 

At some point, the demon just stopped fighting back.

 

John couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to voice it, but he knew in his gut that Moriarty wasn’t fighting him. He wasn’t struggling, he wasn’t pushing, he was just sitting there and smiling at John at the incantations slowly snipped all the strings that tied him to his host.

 

This scared John more than any attempt of resistance would have.

 

Why was he doing this? It was essentially suicide, to just sit back and let an exorcist do their worst. A novice would be able to cast out Moriarty like this. The demon may as well have just shot himself in the head, for all the effort he was putting towards his continued existence.

 

After five hours, John was nearly there.

 

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” Moriarty said softly, jolting Molly and Greg from their silent prayer. “I hope you three had a good time. I know that I thoroughly enjoyed watching Sherlock rip himself to pieces.”

 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” John said in a shaky voice, “I cast you from here.”

 

“I’m happy to go,” Moriarty said. “I could use some time to make some new plans. Once I do though…” Moriarty laughed. “Well, I’ll just see you soon.”

 

Black smoke erupted from the host’s mouth, pooling at the ceiling of the chapel.

 

“Our father, who art in Heaven,” John began. “Hallowed be thy name.”

 

The smoke twisted on itself before being sucked through the roof of the chapel.

 

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

 

… …

 

There was a long silence before Greg finally found his voice. “What the bloody hell just happened? I thought…well, I thought you weren’t doing too well, to be honest.”

 

“The spitting, the twisting, the screaming,” John said. “All the signs of a progressing exorcism mean that the demon is fighting back. From the first prayer, Moriarty just sat there. He wasn’t reacting because he wasn’t fighting.”

 

“Why would he do that?” Molly asked. Greg nodded, seconding the question.   
  
John shrugged. “He’d had his fun, I guess,” he said. The man slowly slumped in on himself, looking like he had rapidly aged over the last few hours. “He didn’t need to play anymore.”

 

“So he just…killed himself?” Molly asked incredulously.

 

“Essentially,” John said. “More like he turned himself in. Heaven will take it from here.”

 

A silence fell upon the group.

 

“So…” Greg started, saying what everyone else was thinking. “Do you think that Sherlock is okay?”

 

“No,” John said simply. Without another word, he packed up his things and walked out of the chapel.

 

Greg and Molly watched him go.

 

“Do you think…” Molly said. “Do you think that he should be alone right now?”

 

“I think that he should mourn,” Greg said. “We all should. He’ll do it in his way. And I don’t know about you, but my way is going to involve some alcohol.”

 

“Oh, God yeah,” Molly sighed.

 

“Can I buy you a drink then?” Greg asked, picking up this things.

 

Molly offered him a small smile. “Yes.”

 

… …

 

There was a flash of blinding pain, and then darkness.

 

Sherlock didn’t want to wake up from it.

 

He curled up on himself, willing away all the agony and regret pelting him like raindrops.

 

Oh, wait.

 

He was wet.

 

Those were actual raindrops.

 

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but a sky grey with clouds.

 

On their own accord, his eyes closed once again.

 

For a long time, he was aware of nothing else.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue after this!

John stared at Dr. Sawyer with no small amount of accusation.

 

“You said he wouldn’t Fall,” he said after a moment, his voice rough.

 

Dr. Sawyer looked confused. “He shouldn’t have.”

 

“Well, he has,” John repeated. “And I would like to know why.”

 

“I don’t know why,” she said, sounding genuinely sorry about that. “I don’t know why he Fell. There hasn’t been a record of anything like that before.”

 

John couldn’t accept that as an answer.

 

He just couldn’t.

 

… …

 

He was half convinced that Sherlock had gotten to Heaven somehow. John holed up in his flat for days, researching for hours and hours, sleeping for a lot less, and eating whenever Molly or Greg stopped by to remind him to take care of himself.

 

He didn’t see Sherlock, though.

 

If Sherlock had Fallen, John reasoned, he would still be on Earth. And he would have bothered John by now.

 

But then John would remember that he essentially told Sherlock that he didn’t want a relationship with him. He wondered if Sherlock had simply listened to John (for once) and done what the man asked.

 

Those thoughts often led John to sitting on his sofa, staring at a bottle of whisky, weighing the risks of alcoholism against the desire to forget.

 

He had yet to take a drink alone.

 

He limited himself to getting pissed whenever Greg took him out to the pub. Which wasn’t often, considering that Greg had a life of his own and couldn’t be asked to baby sit a grown man every day.

 

From what John gathered, Greg finally asked Molly out. They had been dating for a few weeks. It seemed to be going well, from what John heard every time he pulled himself away from his thoughts to actually pay attention to what was being said to him.

 

That wasn’t often, either.

 

His days were empty and grey, put on complete hold now that Sherlock was gone.

 

John had come close—he had come _so_ close—to being with Sherlock.

 

If only he had opened his arms, instead of begging Sherlock to go.

 

He thought he was doing the right thing, by denying himself what he wanted.

 

But look where that got him.

 

Sitting on a sofa and staring at a bottle of whisky.   
  
All alone.

 

… …       

 

John both looked forward to and dreaded the days when someone checked up on him. ‘Looked forward to’ because he felt slightly better when he was with another person, being forced to take a shower and eat a real meal. ‘Dreaded’ because it just took away time that he could be spending trying to figure out what happened to Sherlock.

 

But he rarely had visitors two days in a row, which was why he was surprised to hear his flat buzzed only twelve hours after he had bid farewell to Molly the night before.

 

He buzzed them up without asking who it was, because really only two people talked to him, and idly looked around the flat to see if Molly had forgotten anything there.

 

He was not expecting the click on an umbrella against wood when Mycroft entered the flat.

 

The first thing that John noticed was that Mycroft stood straighter, moved more confidently. The second thing that John noticed was Mycroft’s eyes.

 

They were blue.

 

Gone were the sightless, milky white eyes that John had grown accustomed to seeing.

 

“So you…” John started.

 

“Redemption,” Mycroft answered for him. “My assistance throughout the whole Moriarty affair, and my assistance with Sherlock, has been rewarded. I am not permitted into Heaven unaccompanied, but I can return when invited.”

 

John huffed out a bitter laugh. “I’m glad someone came out of this better off than before.”

 

Mycroft frowned. “You’re referring to Sherlock, I presume?”

 

“Who else would I be referring to?” John asked in flat anger, taking a seat in an arm chair and gesturing that Mycroft could do the same. The angel remained standing. “I assume you were there.”

 

“I helped finish the job at his request,” Mycroft answered. “And before you accuse me of anything, know that I tried to get him out of this a long time ago. I should have…I should have seen this coming, though. And I should have done more. I do shoulder a good deal of blame for this.”

 

“So he’s really Fallen then?” John asked, having known deep down that this was the case. “What’s he up to, then?”

 

“He’s healing,” Mycroft said. “He lost consciousness shortly after his wings were removed. I expect him to wake up any day now.”

 

“Could I see him?” John asked, half hoping the answer would be no.

 

“He will see you when he is ready,” Mycroft said. “Do not let the guilt of this eat you alive, Dr. Watson. Sherlock did this for you. He would hate to see it destroy you.”

 

“I didn’t ask him to do this,” John whispered, barely able to speak. “Never once, did I ask him to do this.”

 

“I think you’ll find that it has been for the best,” Mycroft said, an odd note entering his voice. “Until then, be strong. I will send him to you as soon as he is ready.”

 

“He’ll be Fallen,” John said sadly. “He won’t be the same. He’ll resent me for what he’s lost.”

 

Mycroft looked slightly affronted. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit before gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly. “I had hoped that you would think better of my brother,” he said with disappointment. “He hastried _so_ hard to be good enough for you.”

 

… …

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at the white light in confusion.

 

He felt so sore, so battered and bruised.

 

Where was he?   
  
What had happened?

 

“At last,” a familiar voice said at his side. “You’ve awoken.”

 

Sherlock rolled over and blinked in surprised at Mycroft.

 

“Your eyes--” he started, his voice raspy.

 

“As you predicted, brother, I was rewarded for my help,” Mycroft said with a smile. “As were you.”

 

“Rewarded?” Sherlock didn’t understand. He had never felt so weak in his existence. How was this state a reward?

 

“Love is a complicated thing,” Mycroft said instead of answering. “It’s an understatement to say that our religion has its problems. Even God knows that it does. But one thing that this religions gets right, time after time, is pure and utterly _good_ act of sacrificing for love.” Mycroft smiled. “Yes, Sherlock. You have been most richly rewarded. And you would know how if you stopped seeing and started observing.”

 

Sherlock took his brother’s advice and gasped.

 

… …

 

Knowing that Sherlock was coming to see him helped somewhat.

 

John cleaned his flat, reacquainted himself with regular personal hygiene, and started eating better.

 

But still, it was a few more days before there was a knock at his door.

 

Whoever it was had gotten into the building without buzzing. Heart hammering in his chest, John opened the door.

 

Sherlock stood there, a small smile on his face. He was hunched into himself, looking insecure. “Hello, John,” was all that he said, however. He gave John puppy dog eyes, and it was a moment of half disbelieving and half intensely relieved silence before John realized that Sherlock wanted to be invited in.

 

“Come on, then,” John said gruffly, trying not to betray anything.

 

Sherlock still looked uncertain, but he entered the flat.

 

There was another silence as Sherlock looked around.

 

John decided to bite the bullet and get on with this. “What are you planning to do now?”

 

“Now?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Now that you’ve Fallen,” John clarified, the sentence almost physically painful to utter.

 

Sherlock slowly smiled. “I’ve haven’t Fallen, though,” he said, his eyes bright.

 

That derailed John’s thoughts completely. “What?”   


“As always, John. You see, but you do not observe.” Sherlock held out his arms, displaying himself. “I’m not an angel anymore,” Sherlock said, sounding breathless. “But I haven’t Fallen.”   
  
That was when John realized that he didn’t feel the sad, oppressive energy of the Fallen, nor did he feel the light, airy presence of an angel.

 

All he felt there was Sherlock.

 

“You’re--” John choked, his eyes wide.

 

“I’m human,” Sherlock said, looking elated and slightly terrified at the prospect. “I am one hundred percent mortal.”

 

“But--” John didn’t understand. “How? Why?”   


“Angels never Fall for love,” Sherlock explained. “They Fall to temptation. They Fall to vice. Love is a beautiful and brilliant thing. It isn’t a sin. Yes, my wings died because I lost my Grace, but not as punishment.”

 

Sherlock took a hesitant step towards John. “It’s why there was no records of angels having Fallen for something other than sin. Angels that love are quietly given their humanity and disappear among the humans for the remainder of their lives. It isn’t a punishment, John,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hand. “It’s a gift. I—I’ve been given the chance to be with you.” Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted, looking uncomfortable. “That is—if you would like to, that is. You are by no means to feel obligated to--”

 

John silenced him with a kiss.

 

Sherlock froze, obviously having absolutely no idea what to do, but let John’s hands guide him where he was supposed to be, let John’s lips guide him into what he was supposed to be doing.

 

“It’s alright then?” Sherlock asked when they pulled apart. The man looked terrified.

 

John just smiled. “We’ve…we’ve got a lot to work out,” John admitted. “A lot of things to discuss. You need to learn how to function in this world. We have to figure out how _we_ are going to work, and what we’re going to tell people.”

 

“I have no intention of lying,” Sherlock said immediately. “Keeping this quiet is idiotic. If just one angel before me had made a record of what happened, there would have been a lot less pain.”

 

“I think the pain is part of it, love,” John said with an apologetic smile. “We don’t exactly get our rewards without being tested first, do we? It isn’t sacrifice if we expect to get something from it.”

 

Sherlock gave a grudging, “I suppose not…” before trailing off and gazing at John with wonder.

 

“Alright there?” John asked, feeling embarrassed under the intensity of the gaze.

 

“Just…” Sherlock frowned. “I just can’t believe…I can’t believe you _want_ me,” he said frankly. “I was certain that given some time away from me you would realize that I am not a good friend or companion, and that there are many better partners for you out there. And I…” Sherlock gave John a rare, dazzling smile. “I just feel _blessed._ ”

 

John could understand the feeling.

 

He was still stuck on the idea that something that was supposed to be as perfect and magnificent as an angel of the Lord would give up everything for him.

 

“I’m nothing special,” John reminded him. “ _I’m_ the one who’s blessed.”

 

Sherlock gave John his typical _you’re an idiot but I still like you_ smile. “What did I just say? As _always_ ¸ John,” Sherlock said, sounding very put upon. “You don’t observe _anything._ It’s hopeless, really, at this point.” 

 

“I’ll keep trying,” John promised, pulling the former angel down for another kiss.

 

… …

 

It took some getting used to.

 

It took Sherlock a while to understand how simple things worked. He never quite caught on to some of the finer points of social interaction, but in a few weeks he could manage in London just fine by himself.

 

Greg and Molly were overjoyed, but then realized that even as a human Sherlock could be an enormous twat, and settled for seeing him once a week or so, provided that John was with him.

 

Mycroft disappeared from their lives.

 

He said a quick goodbye to Sherlock, during which Sherlock teared up (he had yet to get a firm grip on all those pesky human emotions) and Mycroft just looked mildly concerned.

 

They didn’t have to ask why Mycroft left them. They had seen firsthand what too much emotional attachment did to an angel.

 

Not that Sherlock minded, in the end.

 

After a month, he had firmly beaten all his emotions and submission, and returned to the logical, calculating, and occasionally cold man that John had somehow fallen in love with.

 

John wasn’t sure what it said about him once he discovered that this brought him a sense of relief. It wasn’t that John was opposed to affectionate Sherlock, it was that affectionate Sherlock was very insecure and had the tendency to cry when overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion.

 

Even positive ones.

 

Dealing with that had been exhausting.

 

After a month, everything settled.

 

After a month, John went back to work as an exorcist, and Sherlock joined Greg in the business of hunting demons. He had a knack for sorting human based crime from demon based crime, and took enjoyment from solving both.

 

This terrified John to no end, as Sherlock seemed to forget that mortals could _die,_ but more often than not, John was there watching Sherlock’s back, making sure that the madman kept himself out of trouble.

 

He didn’t always succeed, but he did his best.

 

Even now, all Sherlock had to say was “Could be dangerous,” and there John was, ready to fight at his side.

 

… …

 

Sherlock paced the floor of 221B. He and John moved in a few weeks after Sherlock’s return (since it was bigger than John’s other flat) and he felt that things had settled into enough of a routine that he could risk rocking the boat.

 

He was ninety percent confident that his request was going to be received positively, but he was never quite sure with John. He really missed having the sense of a mortal’s mind. It would certainly make everything easier with this whole ‘relationship’ thing. Monogamous relationships were actually a lot more complicated than Sherlock had envisioned when he was still an angel. Although, admittedly all he really had envisioned was holding John’s hand and being with him forever and ever.

 

But once John kissed him that first time, Sherlock remembered that there were things that couples did that were in a separate category.

 

John had been considerate to Sherlock this past month, waiting for him to acclimate, allowing him to experience different emotions in safe settings before he was able to understand them and, eventually, get some modicum of control over them. John never pushed, he never hinted that he might want more, even when he very obviously did, he just waited for Sherlock to go at his own pace.

 

And while Sherlock appreciated that very much, at this point he was more than ready for them to just _get on with it._

 

So, without any real seduction or finesse, Sherlock just pounced on John as soon as he returned with the shopping.

 

“Sherlock--” John tried to protest between kisses. “Sherlock, what are you—Sherlock, I have milk! It’s getting warm”

 

“Then put it in the fridge so we can continue,” Sherlock snapped, grabbing either side of John’s face with his hands and pressing his lips wherever he could manage.

 

“I can’t put it in the fridge until you bloody let go!” John complained, finally pulling away. “Give me a moment, then we can continue…” John gestured to Sherlock as a whole. “We can continue all of this.”

 

Sherlock sat in his armchair and waited primly until John returned.

 

“Should I be concerned?” John asked first, which Sherlock found very annoying because, after all, John was the one who had been human his whole life and presumably _knew how these things worked_ , while Sherlock was blindly bumbling around, trying to convey himself effectively without being too embarrassing.

 

“No,” Sherlock said shortly. “Now, straddle me.”

 

John stared at Sherlock flatly. “You want me to…?”

 

“I’m ninety percent certain of how this works,” Sherlock said, allowing some room for error. “The internet was very helpful on most points. Although most of the tips on seducing men seemed to be made for women, and I couldn’t really convert most of them to suit our needs. Quite frankly, I’m not sure where to get lingerie in my size, unless I order online of course, but that required several days for shipping and I didn’t really want to wait for that long. So I decided to forgo the seduction altogether and hope you got the message, but I might have miscalculated, since you seem so confused. Is seduction really necessary to get to the sex bit?”

 

John blinked rapidly. “You want to have sex.”   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, glad that they were on the same page. “Very much so. I suggest that we proceed swiftly to the bedroom and begin immediately.”

 

“Sherlock…” John looked rather shocked, which sent a flare of annoyance through Sherlock. He had been _so_ certain that John understood by now. Perhaps he would need to make it more obvious. “Sherlock, I honestly didn’t think that you _wanted_ sex.”

 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blink in confusion. “Pardon?”

 

“You’ve never…responded that way,” John said, gesturing helplessly. “We’ve…we’ve been nearly there a few times now, and you never physically responded.”

 

“That’s because I didn’t let myself,” Sherlock explained, waving that away. “I’ve found that thinking of Mycroft solves that problem rather neatly.”

 

“You didn’t…? Why not?!” John asked, a note of demand in his voice. Now it was his turn to look irritated.

 

How bizarre.

 

These human reactions still made very little sense.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I wasn’t ready,” he said honestly, feeling a bit embarrassed by the fact. “It was too much, for a while. Too much feeling, too much sensation. It was overwhelming and I couldn’t _think._ ” Sherlock frowned. “Thinking is all I still have from before, really. Losing it was distressing. But I’ve gotten used to not thinking sometimes, and I’ve grown comfortable with it. Now I would like to follow the natural progression of things and experience sexual gratification with the man I love.”

 

John grinned a goofy little grin, like he did every time Sherlock reminded him how cherished he was.

 

“Are you sure about this, love?” John asked, taking a few hesitant steps forward.

 

Sherlock nodded quickly. “Yes. Now, straddle me.” He patted his lap in invitation.

 

John barked out a laugh. “I don’t think so,” he said with a smile. He held out his hand. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”

 

The undressing was a bit awkward, with Sherlock clinically removing his clothes and John trying to tease the fabric off between kisses.

 

Sherlock just did _not_ understand why John was delaying so much.

 

“It’s called foreplay, you nutter,” John informed him when Sherlock vocalized his confusion. “It enhances the experience.”

 

“How?”   


“Because we love each other and this lets us show each other with our bodies.”

 

“You show me you love me with your body every time you hold my hand.”

 

John smiled a big crinkly smile. “You’re a big softie at heart, aren’t you? Shut up and get on the bed.”

 

Sherlock shivered slightly when his bare skin rested against the cold linen. He sincerely hoped that the friction was coming soon because he was bloody _freezing._

 

“I’m here,” John said, leaning over Sherlock and trailing kisses down the exposed skin. “I’m right here for you.”   
  
Sherlock shivered again for a completely different reason.

 

John showed him where to put his hands, and explained the science behind why a finger _right there_ felt so unbelievably fantastic and why teeth _there_ made Sherlock whimper and squirm.

 

They went slowly, with John backing off each time a new feeling, a new sensation, caused Sherlock to blank out. He repeatedly asked if Sherlock wanted him to stop, but when each time the answer was negative, John simply waited for Sherlock to acclimate.

 

Sherlock’s heart was absolutely _racing._ He felt too _much_ , felt trapped in his skin and he couldn’t make himself lie still. Every movement, every plea he uttered, was to chase after some impossible to define physiological need that he barely understood.

 

“I’ve got you,” John promised as Sherlock neared this indefinite goal. “I’m right here.”

 

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered, barely able to get the words out in between panting breaths.

 

“I love you too,” John promised.   
  
And then something snapped. His vision whited out and for the first time he properly understood why there were so many humans on this stupid planet. It was no wonder they kept reproducing if _this_ was what it felt like.

 

It felt the same as flying, or falling when you know that you would not hit the ground.

 

The two were not dissimilar.

 

… …

 

“Are you alright?” John asked a while later, watching as Sherlock slowly blinked back into awareness.

 

“Over a thousand years,” Sherlock croaked. “And this is what I had been waiting for.” He looked up at John with eyes like molten silver. “Every single second has been worth it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END! Thank you for reading!

John had left him again.

 

But that was alright.

 

For the first time, Sherlock would finally be able to follow.

 

He only had to wait a few more years, as his body aged and his mind slowed.

 

Lestrade left him a few years before, and Molly outlasted them all. In the last few years of his life, Sherlock lived with her, and he endured the visits with the frankly alarming amount of grandchildren she and Lestrade possessed with both patience and dignity.

 

He most certainly did not get in a shouting match with a four year old.

 

If Molly said he did, she was lying.

 

… …

 

Sherlock didn’t get sick.

 

He didn’t have a sense of his impending death. In fact, he had no intention at all of dying. He had even promised to look at some police files for Lestrade’s oldest daughter, who was a rising star at New Scotland Yard.

 

But first he had to take a nap.

 

He tired very easily these days.

 

Sherlock never woke up.

 

… …

 

 _Hello,_ the soul of Sherlock said in confused recognition. _I believe I know you._

_You do,_ the soul of John Watson (and many others before him) said, sounding pleased. _I was afraid you would have forgotten._

_How could I forget?_ The soul of Sherlock asked. _I’ve been chasing after you for close to two thousand years._

_And I waited,_ the soul of John assured him. _I thought we might like to go together._

_Divinity?_ the soul of Sherlock asked in wonder. _I can finally return?_

We _can,_ the soul of John corrected him. _We have been split for far too long._

_Yes,_ the soul of Sherlock agreed. _I would like very much to be whole once again._

The soul of Sherlock started forward, ready to join Divinity, but paused when the soul of John remained still.

 

 _Coming, my dear Watson?_ Sherlock asked.

 

 _Of course,_ John assured him. _Just…remembering for a moment. Thank you, Sherlock. For this life and all the others before._

_I’m glad you finally remember,_ Sherlock admitted. _Now, shall we?_

 

The two souls joined Divinity.

 

They were never parted again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me at emptycel.tumblr.com for updates and excerpts. Also, you can send me a message there if you have any questions, comments, or concerns. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'The Ruin of Souls' by Emptycel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433877) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)




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